*»««ry, 








TRAVELLERS IN A STORM, MOUNT WASHINGTON. 



THE HEART 



OF THE 



WHITE MOUNTAINS 



THEIR LEGEND AND SCENERY 



SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE 

AUTHOR OF "NOOKS AND CORNERS OF THE NEW ENGLAND COAST' 
"CAPTAIN NELSON" ETC. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

\V. HAMILTON GIBSON 



'■'Eyes loose ; thoughts dose" 



..J.?:.t:}.^.:rr^ 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
1882 



F4I 
.5 

176 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1881, by 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 
In the Office of the Librarian of ConCTess, at Washineton. 



A/i •■i-:r'i!s raer-.vd. 



To JOHN G. WHITTIER: 

A/i illustrious and venerated hard, who shares with you the love and honor 

of his countrymen, tells us that the poets arc the best travelling companions. Like 

Orlando in the forest of Arden, they ''hang odes on han't horns and elegies on 

thistles." 

s 

/// the spirit of that delightful companionship, so graciously announced, it is 
to you, luho have kindled on our aged summits 

" 77/t" t/g/it that nci>cr was on sea or land, 
The consecration and the poet's dream," 

that this volume is affectionately dedicated by 

THE AUTHOR. 



GENERAL CONTENTS. 



FIRST JOURNEY. 

I. Mr Travellixg Co.vpax/oxs i 

II. L\coMPARABLE JVixxi pisEOGEE : Voyagc froiii W'nlfborough to Centi'e Harbor. 
— The Indians.— Centre Harbor.— Legendary.— -Ascent of Red Hill.— Sunset 
on the Lake 8 

III. Cf/ocoRUA : Stage Journey to Tamworth. — Scramble for Places. — Valley of the 
Bear Camp. — Legend of Chocorua. — Sandwich Mountains.— Chocorua Lake. 
— .\scent of Mount Ciiocorua i8 

IV. LofEH-ELL: Fryeburg.— Lovewell's Fight.— Desperate Encounter with the Pig- 

wackets. — Death of I'augus 33 

V. A^ORTH Coxn-Ay: The .Vntechamber of the Mountains. — \\'hite Horse Ledge. — 
Fording the Saco. — Indian Custom. — Echo Lake. — The Cathedral. — Diana's 
Baths.— .Artists' Falls.— The Moats.— \\'inter .Ascent of Mount Kearsarge . 39 

VI. From Kearsarge to Carrigajx : Conway Intervales. — Bartlett Bowlder.— 
Singular Homicide.— Bartlett.— A Lost Village.— Ascent of Mount Carrigain. 
— A Shaggy Wilderness 55 

VII. Valley of the Saco: Autumnal Foliage. —The Story of Nancy. — Doctor 
Bemis. — Abel Crawford, the Veteran Guide.— Ethan A. Crawford. — The 
Mount Crawford Glen.— Giant's Stairs.— Frankenstein Cliff.— Superb A^iew 
of Mount Washington.— Mount Willey 66 



viii GENERAL CONTEXTS. 

VIII. Through the Notch: Great Notch of the White Mountains. — The Willey 
House, and Slide of 1826. — "Colonizing" Voters. — Mount Willard. — Mount 
Webster, and its Cascades. — Gate of the Notch. — Summit of the Pass . . 76 

IX. Craii-ford's : The Elephant's Head. — Crawford House, and Glen. — Discovery 

of The Notch. — Ascent of Mount Willard. — Magnificent coup li'a-i/ ... 87 

X. The Ascext from Crawforvs : The Bridle-path. — Wreck of the Forest. — 
A Forest of Ice. — Dwarf Trees. — Summit of Mount Clinton. — Caught in a 
Snow-storm. — The Colonel's Hat. — Oakes's Gulf. — The Plateau. — Climbing 
the Dome. — The Summit at Last . . 95 



SECOND JOURNEY. 

I. Legexds of the CRysTAL Hills: Indian Tradition and Legend. — Ascent 
of Mount Washington by Darby Field. — Indian Name of the White Moun- 
tains 113 

II. Jacksox axd the Ellis Valley: Thorn Hill. — Jackson. — Jackson Falb. 
— Goodrich Falls. — The Ellis. — A Captive Maiden's Song. — Pretty Indian 
Legend. — Pinkham Notch, from the Ellis. — A Mountain Homestead. — Artist 
Life 122 

III. The Carii^r Ncut/: \ alley of the Wildcat. — The Guide. — The Way In. — 

Summit of The Notch. — Awful Desolation. — The Giant's Barricade. — Carter 
Dome. — The Way Out 132 

IV. The PixKHAM Notch: The Glen House. — Thompson's Falls. — Emerald 

Pool. — Crystal Cascade. — Glen Ellis and its Legend 144 

V. A Scramble ix Tuckermaxs : Tuckerman's Ravine. — The Path. — Hermit 

Lake. — "No Thoroughfare." — Interior of the Ravine. — The Snow Arch . . 155 



6^ E NK R A L C O X TE NTS . ix 

W. Ix Axn Abovt Gok/iam: The Peabody Valley. — Copp's Farm. — The Imp. 
— Nathaniel Copp's .Adventure. — Gorham "and llie .Androscoggin. — Mount 
Hayes. — Mount Madison. — Wholesale Destruction of the Forests. — Logging 
in the Mountains. — Berlin Falls. — Shelburne and Bethel 165 

VH. AscuNT BY THE Carkiage-eoad : Bruiu and the Tra\e!lers. — The Ledge. — 
The Great Gulf. — Fatal Accident. — Lost Travellers. — Arrival at the Signal- 
station. — A Night on the Summit 178 

VIIL Mouxr Wasiiixgtox : View from the Sunnnit. — The Great Gale. — Life on 
the Summit. — Shadow of Mount Washington. — Bigelow's Lawn. — The 
Hunter Monument. — Lake of the Clouds. — The Mountain Butterfly . . . 1S9 



THIRD JOURNEY. 

L The Pemigeu-asset is Juxe : Plymouth. — Death of Hawthorne. — John 
Stark, the Hunter. — Livermore Fall. — ^Trout and Salmon Breeding. — Fran- 
conia Mountains from West Campton. — Settlement of Campton. — Valley of 
ALid River. — Tripyramid Mountain. — \A'atervilIe and its Surroundings . . 209 

n. The Eraxcoxia Pass: The Flume House. ^The Pool. — The Flume. — 
Ascent of Mount Pemigewasset. — The Basin. — Mount Cannon. — Profile 
Lake. — Old Man of the Mountain. — Summit of the Pass 224 

HL The Kixg of Eraxcoxia : Profile House and Glen. — Eagle Clitif. — Echo 
Lake. — .Ascent of Mount Lafayette. — The Lakes. — Singular Atmospheric 



Effects 



237 



IV. Eraxcoxia, axd the N'eighborhood : 'i'he Roadside Spring. — Franconia 

Iron Works and Mcinity. — Sugar Hill 248 



\'. 7//£ CoxxECTicuT Ox-Boii- : Newbury and Haverhill 256 

2 



viii GENERAL CONTENTS. 

VIII. Through the N^otch : Great Notch of the White Mountains. 

House, and Slide of 1826. — "Colonizing" Voters. — Mount Willard. — Mount 
Webster, and its Cascades. — Gate of the Notch. — Summit of the Pass . . 76 

IX. Cra ifford's : The Elephant's Head. — Crawford House, and Glen. — Discovery 

of The Notch. — Ascent of Mount Willard. — Magnificent coup d'ceil ... 87 

X. The Ascent from Crawford s : The Bridle-path. — Wreck of the Forest. — 
A Forest of Ice. — Dwarf Trees. — Summit of Mount Clinton. — Caught in a 
Snow-storm. — The Colonel's Hat. — Oakes's Gulf. — The Plateau. — Climbing 
the Dome. — The Summit at Last 95 



SECOND JOURNEY. 

I. Legends of the Crystal Hills: Indian Tradition and Legend. — Ascent 
of Mount Washington by Darby Field. — Indian Name of the White Moun- 
tains 113 

II. Jackson and the Ellis Valley: Thorn Hill. — Jackson. — Jackson Falb. 
— Goodrich Falls. — The Ellis. — A Captive Maiden's Song. — Pretty Indian 
Legend. — Pinkham Notch, from the Ellis.— A Mountain Homestead. — Artist 
Life 122 

HI. The Carter N'otch : Valley of the Wildcat. — The Guide. — The Way In. — 
Summit of The Notch. — Awful Desolation. — The Giant's Barricade. — Carter 
Dome. — The Way Out 132 

IV. The I'inkham N'otch: The Glen House. — Thompson's Falls. — Emerald 

Pool. — Crystal Cascade. — Glen Ellis and its Legend 144 

V. A Scramble in 7'uckerman'S : Tuckerman's Ravine. — The Path. — Hermit 

Lake. — " No Thoroughfare." — Interior of the Ravine. — The Snow Arch . . 155 



G E NE R A L C O . V 7'E N 1 'S . ix 

W. Ix Axn About Gorham: The I'eabody Valley. — ("ojip's Farm. — I'lie Imp. 
— Nathaniel Copp's Acheiiture. — Gorham "and the .Androscoggin. — Mount 
Hayes. — Mount Madison. — Wholesale Destruction of the Forests. — Logging 
in the Mountains. — Berlin Falls. — Shelburne and Bethel 165 

VII. AscE.\T BY THE Carri AGE-ROAD : Bruin and the Travellers. — The Ledge. — 
The Great Gulf. — Fatal Accident. — Lost Travellers. — Arrival at the Signal- 
station. — A Night on the Summit 178 

VIII. Mount Washington : View from the Summit. — The Great Gale. — Life on 
the Summit. — Shadow of Mount Washington. — Bigelow's Lawn. — The 
Hunter Monument. — Lake of the Clouds. — The Mountain Butterfly . . . iSg 



THIRD JOURNEY. 

I. The Pemigfm'asset in June: Plymouth. — Death of Hawthorne. — John 
Stark, the Hunter. — Livermore Fall. — Trout and Salmon Breeding. — Fran- 
conia Mountains from West Campton. — Settlement of Campton. — Valley of 
Mad River. — Tripyramid Mountain. — \\'aterville and its Surroundings . . 209 

II. The Fkanconia Pass: The Flume House. — The Pool. — The Flume. — 
-•Ascent of Mount Pemigewasset. — The Basin. — Mount Cannon. — Profile 
Lake. — Old Man of the Mountain. — Summit of the Pass 224 

III. The King of Franconia : Profile House and Glen. — Fagle Cliff. — Echo 

Lake. — .Ascent of Mount Lafayette. — The Lakes. — Singular .Atmospheric 
Effects 237 

IV. Franconia, and the N'eighborhood : The Roadside Spring. — Franconia 

Iron Works and Vicinity. — Sugar Hill 248 

\'. The Connecticut Ox-Botr : Newbury and Haverhill 256 



//./.cs'jA'.ir/o.vs. 



Ukkmh' Lake 

Snow Aki h. Ticki-.rmans Kavim; 


. \l' J Dtiiia . . 




. X. Orr ... 






. J. rink.-Y . . . 




TllK ANDKOSCOr.C.lN AT SH1 l.lll'RNK 


. G. Smi'l/i . . 




Mount Adams and the Gkeai' Gulf 


. If. //. .)/i>r.u- . . 




Winter Storm on the Summit 


. a: Si:'„//iiijr . . 




*The Tornado Forcing an Entrance 


. -J. Tinkey . . . . 




Dfsig-Neii f'X Thiire df Thuhtriip. 






Lake of the Clouds 


. 7. /'. Davh . . 




On the Profile Road 


. Siiiit/nutik and Fri 


Hill .... 


Welch Mountain, from NL\n Rn i:k 


. J. HillaWill . . 




Black and TRirvRAMiD Mountains 

Franconia Notch, from Thornton 


. 7. 5. Hiir/,v . . 




. F. S. Kni!:^ . . 




A Glimpse of the Pool 


. C. .U.iy.-r . . . 




The Basin 

*The Old Man of the Moiniain 

DesigHtd by (Jr.iHvilU /'rriins. 


J P. Davis . . 




Ct J liticihmr . 












*Eagle Cliff and the Echo House 


. l\ Ar.niii . . . 




Ufjig-imi fy GraitfilU /'eriins. 






Echo Lake. Franconia 

Mount Cannon, from the Bkidle-iwhi. Lafayeii 


. G. J. liiuxliiicr . 




E R. ScM/nix . . 




Cloud Effects on Mount Lafayette 


. A\ IfosAiii . 




♦Franconia Iron Works and Notch 


. C. Afavcr . . . 




Dtsigfieti by OrttHvilU Perkins. 






*The Roadside Spring 






Dfn%;iird by II'. A. /To^.rj. 






♦Robert Rogers (Portrait) 


. C. Mayer . . . 








Designed by II'. A. Kogers. 








. J. Tiitk.v . . . 




The Northern Peaks, from Jefferson .... 


. Siiiil/i\i'iiA' aiiii Frt 


■iicli .... 




F HM 










/><•«>«.</ by CrtiNviile P.-rkim. 








. J. Hillauvll . . 




The Castell.ated Ridge. Mount Jefferson . . 


. 7. Tiitki-y . . . 





160 

166 
176 
182 
187 
'94 



217 

--5 

230 
234 



240 
-4- 
-45 
24S 



260 

2S0 
292 



^!AP OF the White Mountains i^Kast Side) .xy 

(Central and Xorl/icrn Src/ion) 1 11 

(/fV.t/ Sidf) 207 



FIRST JOURNEY. 



I. A/y TRAVELLING COMPANIONS i 

II. INCOMPARABLE IVINNIPISEOGEE 8 

III. CHOCORUA i8 

IV. LOVE WELL 33 



V. NORTH CONIIAV. 



39 



VI. KEARSARGE TO CAR RIGA IN 55 

VII. VALLEY OF THE SACO 66 

VIII. THROUGH THE NOTCH 76 

IX. CRAlVFORD^S 87 

X. ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S 95 



THE 

HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



FIRST JOURNEY. 
I. 

MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 
" Si jeunesse savait ! si viellesse pouvait !" 

ONE morning in September I was sauntering up and down the rail- 
way-station waiting for the slow hands of the clock to reach the 
hour fixed for the departure of the train. The fact that these hands 
never move backward did not in the least seem to restrain the impa- 
tience of the travellers thronging into the station, some with happy, 
some with anxious faces, some without trace of either emotion, yet all 
betraying the same eagerness and haste of manner. All at once I heard 
my name pronounced, and felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder. 

" What !" I exclaimed, in genuine surprise, " is it you, colonel .'" 

" Myself," affirmed the speaker, offering his cigar-case. 

"And where did you drop from" — accepting an Havana; "the Blue 
Grass ?'" 

" I reckon."" 

" But what are vou doing in New England, when you should be in 
Kentucky T 

" Doing, I .■■ oh, well,"" said my friend, with a shade of constraint ; then 
with a quizzical smile, " You are a Yankee ; guess." 

" Take care."' 

" Guess."" 

" Running away from your creditors .■*" 

3 



2 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

The colonel's chin cut the air contemptuously. 

" Running after a woman, perhaps ?" 

My companion quickly took the cigar from his lips, looked at me 
with mouth half opened, then stammered, " What in blue brimstone put 
that into your head ?" 

" Evidently you are going on a journey, but are dressed for an even- 
ing party," I replied, comprising with a glance the colonel's black suit, 
lavender gloves, and white cravat. 

" Why," said the colonel, glancing rather complacently at himself — 
"why we Kentuckians always travel so at home. But it's now your 
turn ; where are you going yourself V' 

" To the mountains." 

" Good ; so am I : White Mountains, Green Mountains, Rocky Moun- 
tains, or Mountains of the Moon, I care not." 

" What is your route .•'" 

" I'm not at all familiar with the topography of your mountains. 
What is yours .■"" 

" By the Eastern to Lake Winnipiseogee, thence to Centre Harbor, 
thence by stage and rail to North Conway and the White Mountain 
Notch." 

My friend purchased his ticket by the indicated route, and the train 
was soon rumbling over the bridges which span the Charles and Mystic. 
Farewell, Boston, city where, like thy railways, all extremes meet, but 
where I would still rather live on a crust moistened with east wind than 
cast my lot elsewhere. 

When we had fairly emerged into the light and sunshine of the 
open country, I recognized my old acquaintance George Brentwood. 
At a gesture from me he came and sat opposite to us. 

George Brentwood was a blond young man of thirty-four or thirty- 
five, with brown hair, full reddish beard, shrewdish blue eyes, a robust 
frame, and a general air of negligent repose. In a word, he was the 
antipodes of my companion, whose hair, eyebrows, and mustache were 
coal-black, eyes dark and sparkling, manner nervous, and his attitudes 
careless and unconstrained, though not destitute of a certain natural 
grace. Both were men to be remarked in a crowd. 

"George." said I. "permit me to introduce my friend Colonel 
Swords." 

After a few civil questions and answers, George declared his desti- 



MV TRAVELLING COMPANIONS. 3 

nation to be ours, and was cordially welcomed to join us. By way of 
breaking the ice, he observed, 

" Apropos of your title, colonel, I presume you served in the Rebel- 
lion ?" 

The colonel hitched a little on his seat before replying. Knowing 
him to be a very modest man, I came to his assistance. " Yes," said I, 
" the colonel fought hard and bled freely. Let me sec, where were you 
wounded .''" 

" Through the chest." 

" No, I mean in what battle ?" 

" Spottsylvania." 

" Left on the field for dead, and taken prisoner," I finished. 

George is a fellow of very generous impulses. " My dear sir," said 
he, effusively, grasping the colonel's hand, " after what you have suf- 
fered for the old flag, you can need no other passport to the gratitude 
and friendship of a New-Englander. Count me as one of your debt- 
ors. During the war it was my fortune — my misfortune, I should say 
— to be in a distant country; otherwise we should have been found 
fighting shoulder to shoulder under Grant, or Sherman, or Sheridan, or 
Thomas. 

The colonels color rose. He drew himself proudly up, cleared his 
throat, and said, laconically, " Hardly, stranger, seeing that I had the 
honor to fight under the Confederate flag." 

You have seen a tortoise suddenly draw back into his shell. Well, 
George as suddenly retreated into his. For an instant he looked at 
the Southron as one might at a confessed murderer; then stammered 
out a few random and unmeaning words about mistaken sense of duty — 
gallant but useless struggle, you know — drew a newspaper from his 
pocket, and hid his confusion behind it. 

Fearing my fiery Kentuckian might let fall some unlucky word that 
would act like a live coal dropped on the tortoise's back, I hastened to 
interpose. " But really, colonel," I urged, returning to the charge, " with 
the Blue Ridge always at your back, I wager you did not come a 
thousand miles merely to see our mountains. Come, what takes you 
from Lexington .''" 

" A truant disposition." 

" Nothing else .?" 

His dark face grew swarthy, then pale. He looked at me doubt- 



4 



HEART OF THE Ti'HITE MOL ^TAIXS. 



fullv a moment, and then leaned close to my ear. " You guessed it." he 
whispexed. 

"A woman?" 

"Yes; you know that I was taken prisoner and sent North. T' 
the influence of a friend who had known my family before the .. -,. 1 
was allowed to pass my first da\-s of con\-alescence in a beautiful little 
\iBage in Berkshire. There I «-as cured of the bullet- but received a 
more mortal wound." 

" What a misfortune !" 

"Yes: no; confound you. let me :^ ' 

-Helen, the daughter of the ge: rrty transfer 

from the hospital to his pleasant home ^the proud Southerner would 
not say his benefactors - was a beautiful creature. Let me describe her 
to you." 

- Oh." I hastened to say, - I know her." Like all lo^iers. that subject 
might have a beginning but no ending. 

"You?" 

■"Of course. Listen. Ycuoa- hair, rippling ravishingly from an ala- 
baster forehead, pink cheeks, pouting lips, dimpled chin, snowy throat — ' 

The colonel made a gesture of impatience. "* Pshaw, thats a type. 
not a portrait. Well, the ujjshot of it was that I was exchanged, and 
ordered to report at Baltimore for transportation to our lines. Imagine 
my dismay. No. you cant, for I was beginning to think she C". 
me, and I was ever}- dav getting deeper and deeper in lo\-e. Bu; 
her! That posed me. WTien alone with her. my cowardly tongue clove 

to the roof of my mouth. Once or twice I came v^er)- r:-- ' "'-r 

oat, ' I lovie you !' just as I would have given an order to a ^ 
charge a batterv-." 

"Well; but tou d:^ -.--;- at last?" 

- Oh yes." 

"And was accepted." 

The colonel lowered his head, and his face grew :?:-ch?d. 

" Refused gently, but positively refused." 

"'7— ■^"" I '-■:."---- '^'->^-^2r the story endeti. i. ^. ._: ..^^ ^ _ _: 

•■ Why ?■■ 

- Because either you are mistaken, or she seems just a little ct a 
coquette." 



J/y TKAVELLIXG COMPANIONS. 5 

" Oh, you don't know her," said the colonel, warmly ; " when we 
parted she betrayed unusual agitation — for her; but I was cut to the 
quick by her refusal, and determined not to let her see how deeply I 
felt it. After the Deluge — you know what I mean — after the tragedy 
at Appomattox, I went back to the old home. Couldn't stay there. 
I tried New Orleans, Cuba. No use." 

Something rose in the colonel's throat, but he gulped it down and 
went on : 

" The image of that girl pursues me. Did you ever try running 
away from yourself.'' Well, after fighting it out with myself until I 
could endure it no longer, I put pride in my pocket, came straight to 
Berkshire, only to find Helen gone." 

" That was unlucky ; where T 

" To the mountains, of course. Everybody seems to be going there ; 
but I shall find her." 

" Don't be too sanguine. It will be like looking for a needle in a 
hay-stack. The mountains are a perfect Daedalian labyrinth," I could 
not help saying, in my vexation. Instead of an ardent lover of nature, 
I had picked up the "baby of a girl." But there was George Brent- 
wood. I went o\'er and sat by George. 

It was generally understood that George was deeply enamored of a 
young and beautiful widow who had long ceased to count her love 
affairs, who all the world, except George, knew loved only herself, and 
who had therefore nothing left worth mentioning to bestow upon an- 
other. By nature a coquette, passionately fond of admiration, her self- 
love was flattered by the attentions of such a man as George, and he, 
poor fellow, driven one day to the verge of despair, the next intoxicated 
with the crumbs she threw him, was the victim of a species of slavery 
which was fast undermining his buoyant and generous disposition. The 
colonel was in hot pursuit of his adored Helen. Two words sufficed to 
acquaint me that George was escaping from his beautiful tormentor. At 
all events, I was sure of him. 

" How charming the country is ! What a delightful sense of free- 
dom !" George drew a deep breath, and stretched his limbs luxuriously. 
"Shall we have an old-fashioned tramp together.?" He continued, with 
assumed vi\'acity, " The deuce take me if I go back to town for a twelve- 
month. How we creep along! I feel exultation in putting the long 
miles between me and the accursed city," said George, at last. 



6 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

'■ Vou experience no regret, then, at leaving the city ?" 
George merely looked at me: but he could not have spoken more 
eloquently. 

The train had just left Portsmouth, when the conductor entered the 
car holding aloft a yellow envelope. Ever}- eye was instantly riveted 
upon it. Conversation ceased. For whom of the fifty or sLxt}- occu- 
pants of the car had this flash overtaken the express train? In that 
moment the criminal realized the futility of flight, the merchant the 
uncertainty of his investments, the man of leisure all the ordinar\- con- 
tingencies of life. The conductor put an end to the suspense by 
demanding. 

" Is Mr. George Brentwood in this car ?"" 

In spite of an heroic efl^ort at self-control. George's hand trembled 
as he tore open the envelope; but as he read his face became radiant. 
Had he been alone I believe he would have kissed the paper. 

" Your news is not bad ?" I ventured to ask. seeing him relapse into 
a fit of musing, and noting the smile that came and went like a ripple 
on still water. 

"Thank you, quite the contrary-; but it is important that I should 
immediately return to Boston." 
" How unfortunate !'" 

George turned on me a fixed and questioning look, but made no 
reply. 

" And the mountains ?" I persisted. 
" Oh, sink the mountains I"' 

I last saw George striding impatiently up and do^^Tl the platform of 
the Rochester station, watch in hand. Without doubt he had received 
his recall. However, there was still the lovelorn colonel. 

Never have I seen a man more thoroughly enraptured with the 
growing beaut\- of the scener}-. I promised myself much enjo\-ment in 
his societ)-. for his comments were both original and picturesque ; so 
that by the time we arrived at Wolfborough I had already forgotten 
George and his widow. 

There was the usual throng of idlers lounging about the pier with 
their noses in the air. and their hands in their pockets ; perhaps more 
than the usual confusion, for the steamer merely touched to take and 
leave passengers. We went on board. As the bell tolled the colonel 
uttered an exclamation. He became all on a sudden transformed from 



A/y TRAVELLIXG COMPANIONS. 7 

a passive spectator into an excited and prominent actor in the scene. 
He gesticulated wildly, swung his hat, and shouted in a frantic way, ap- 
parently to attract the attention of some one in the crowd ; failing in 
which he seized his luggage, took the stairs in two steps, and darting 
like a rocket among the astonished spectators, who divided to the right 
and left before his impetuous onset, was in the act of vigorously shak- 
ing hands with a hale old gentleman of fifty odd when the boat swung 
clear. He waved his unoccupied hand, and I saw his face wreathed in 
smiles. I could not fail to interpret the gesture as an adieu. 

" Halloo !" I shouted, " what of the mountains .''"' 

" Burn the mountains !" was his reply. The steamer glided swiftlv 
down the little bay, and I Avas left to continue my journey alone. 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 



II. 
INCOMPARABLE \VI X X IPI SEOG EE. 

First a lake 
Tinted with sunset, next the wa\-)- lines 
Of far receding hills. — Whittier. 

AT "HEX the steamer glides out of the land-locked inlet at the bot- 
V V torn of which Wolfborough is situated, one of those pictures, 
forever ineffaceable, presents itself. In effect, all the conditions of a 
picture are realized. Here is the shining expanse of the lake stretch- 
ing away in the distance, and finally lost among tufted islets and foli- 
age-rounded promontories. To the right are the Ossipee mountains, 
dark, vigorously outlined, and wooded to their summits. To the left, 
more distant, rise the twin domes of the Belknap peaks. In front, and 
closing the \-iew, the imposing Sandwich summits dominate the scene. 

All these mountains seem advancing into the lake. Thev possess a 
special character of color, outline, or physiognomy which fixes them in 
the memor\% not confusedly, but in the place appropriate to this beau- 
tiful picture, to its fine proportions, exquisite harmony, and general effec- 
tiveness. Even M. Chateaubriand, who maintains that mountains should 
only be seen from a distance — even he would have found in Winnipiseo- 
gee the perfection of his ideal mise en seine ; for here they stand well 
back from the lake, so as to give the best effect of perspective. 

Lovely as the lake is, the eye will rove among the mountains that 
we have come to see. They, and they alone, are the objects which have 
enticed us — entice us even now with a charm and myster\- that we can- 
not pretend to e\-plain. We do not wish it explained. We know that 
we are as free, as light of heart, as the birds that skim the placid sur- 
face of the lake, and coquet with their own shadows. The memory of 
those mountains is like snatches of music that come unbidden and haunt 
you perpetually. 



INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISE OG E E. g 

Having taken in the grander features, the eye is occupied with its 
details. We see the lake quivering in sunshine. From bold summit 
to beautiful water the shores are clothed in most vivid green. The 
islands, which we believe to be floating gardens, are almost tropical in 
the luxuriance and richness of their vegetation. The deep shadows 
they fling down image each islet so faithfully that it seems, like Nar- 
cissus, gloating over its own beauty. Here and there a glimmer of 
w^ater through the trees denotes secluded little havens. Boats float 
idly on the calm surface. Water- fowl rise and beat the glossy, dark 
water with startled wings. White tents appear, and handkerchiefs flut- 
ter from jutting points or headlands. Over all tower the mountains. 

The steamer glided swiftly and noiselessly on, attended by the echo 
of her paddles from the shores. Dimpled waves, parting from her prow, 
rolled indolently in, and broke on the foam-fretted rocks. There was a 
warmth of color about these rocks, a pure transparency to the water, a 
brightness to the foliage, an invigorating strength in the mountains that 
exerted a cheerful influence upon our spirits. 

As we advanced up the lake new and rare vistas rapidly succeeded. 
After leaving Long Island behind, the near ranges drew apart, holding 
us admiring and absorbed spectators of a moving panorama of distant 
summits. An opening appeared, through which Mount Washington 
burst upon us blue as lapis-lazuli, a chaplet of clouds crowning his 
imperial front. Slowly, majestically, he marches by, and now Chocorua 
scowls upon us. A murmur of admiration ran from group to group as 
these monumental figures w^ere successively unveiled. Men kept silence, 
but women could not repress the exclamation, " How beautiful !" The 
two grandest types which these mountains enclose were thus displayed 
in the full splendor of noonday. 

I should add that those who now saw Mount Washington for the 
first time, and whose curiosity was whetted by the knowledge that it was 
the highest peak of the whole family of mountains, openly manifested 
their disappointment. That Mount Washington ! It was in vain to 
remind them that the eye traversed forty miles in its flight from lake to 
summit. Fault of perspective or not, the mountain was not nearly so 
high as they imagined. Chocorua, on the contrary, with its ashen spire 
and olive-green flanks, realized more fully their idea of a high mountain. 
One was near, the other far. Imagination fails to make a mountain 
higher than it looks. The mind takes its measure after the eye. 

4 



lO 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOLXTAJXS. 



Our boat was now rapidly nearing Centre Harbor. On the right its 
progress gradually unmasking the western slopes of the Ossipee range, 
more fully opened the \-iew of Chocorua and his dependent peaks. We 
were looking in the direction of Tamworth, Ossipee. and Conway. Red 
Hill, a detached mountain at the head of the lake, now moved into the 
oap. excluding further \-iews of distant summits. Moosehillock, lofty- but 
unimpressive, has for some time showed its flattened heights over the 
Sandwich Mountains, but is now sinking behind them. To the west, 
thronged with islands, is the long reach of water toward the outlet of 
the lake at Weirs.^ 

This lake was the high^\-ay over which Indian war-parties ad%-anced 
or retreated during their predator}- incursions from Canada. Many cap- 
tives must have crossed it whom its mountain walls seemed forever des- 
tined to separate from friends and kindred. The Indians who inhabited 
\-illages at Winnipiseogee (Weirs), Ossipee. and Pigwacket (Fneburg), 
were hostile; and from time to time during the old wars troops were 
marched from the English settlements to subdue them. These scouting- 
parties found the woods well stocked with bear, moose, and deer, and 
the lake with salmon -trout, some of which, according to the narrative 
before me, were three feet long, and weighed twelve pounds each. 

Traces of Indian occupation remained up to the present centur\-. 
Fishing -weirs and woodland paths were frequently discovered by the 
whites ; but a greater curiosit\- than eidier is mentioned by Dr. Belknap, 
in his '• Histor}- of New Hampshire," who there tells of a pine-tree, stand- 
ing on the shore of Winnipiseogee River, on which was car\-ed a canoe 
with two men in it. supposed to have been a mark of direction to those 
who were exj>ected to follow. Another was a tree in Moultonborough, 
s: _ ar a carr\-ing-place between two p>onds. On this tree was a 

fv^ -. :v)n of one of their expeditions. The number of killed and 
the prisoners were shown by rude draw-ings of human beings, the former 
being distinguished by the mark of a knife across the throat Even 
the distinction of sex \\-as preserved in the drawing. 

Harbor is ad\-antageously situated for a sojourn more or less 

, Although settled as early as 1 755, it is. in common with the 

:owns, barren of histor}- or tradition. Its greatest impulse is. 



- So calle-' " •'" "shing-weirs " ■- T-'-ans. The Indian name was Aquedahtan. 

Here is the E -; with an ir- .-: by Massachusetts sun-eyors in 1652. 



INCOMPARABLE WINNIPISEOGEE. ii 

beyond question, the tide of tourists which annually ebbs and flows 
among the most sequestered nooks, enriching this charming region like 
an inundation of the Nile. An anecdote will, however, serve to illus- 
trate the character of the men who first subdued this wilderness. Our 
anecdote represents its hero a man of resources. His career proves 
him a man of courage. Although a veritable personage, let us call him 
General Hampton. 

The fact that General Hampton lived in that only half-cleared atmos- 
phere following the age of credulity and superstition, naturally accounts 
for the extraordinary legend concerning him which, for the rest, had its 
origin among his own friends and neighbors, who merely shared the 
general belief in the practice of diabolic arts, through compacts with the 
arch-enemy of mankind himself, universally prevailing in that day — yes, 
prevailing all over Christendom. By a mere legend, we are thus able 
to lay hold of the thread which conducts us back through the dark era 
of superstition and delusion, and which is now so amazing. 

The general, says the legend, encountered a far more notable adver- 
sary than Abenaki warriors or conjurers, among whom he had lived, 
and whom it was the passion of his life to exterminate. 

In an evil hour his yearning to amass wealth suddenly led him to de- 
clare that he would sell his soul for the possession of unbounded riches. 
Think of the devil, and he is at your elbow. The fatal declaration was 
no sooner made — the general was sitting alone by his fireside — than a 
shower of sparks came down the chimney, out of which stepped a man 
dressed from top to toe in black velvet. The astonished Hampton 
noticed that the stranger's ruffles were not even smutted. 

" Your servant, general," quoth the stranger, suavely, " but let us 
make haste, if you please, for I am expected at the governor's in a 
quarter of an hour," he added, picking up a live coal with his thumb 
and forefinger and consulting his watch with it. 

The general's wits began to desert him. Portsmouth was five 
leagues, long ones at that, from Hampton House, and his strange visitor 
talked, with the utmost unconcern, of getting there in fifteen minutes. 
His astonishment caused him to stammer out, 

" Then you must be the — " 

"Tush! what signifies a name .^" interrupted the stranger, with a 
deprecating wave of the hand. "Come, do we understand each other.? 
is it a bargain or not .''" 



12 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

At the talismanic word "bargain" the general pricked up his ears. 
He had often been heard to say that neither man nor devil could get 
the better of him in a trade. He took out. his jack-knife and began to 
whittle. The devil took out his, and began to pare his nails. 

" But what proof have I that you can perform what you promise .?"' 
demanded Hampton, pursing up his mouth, and contracting his bushy 
eyebrows. 

The fiend ran his fingers carelessly through his peruke ; a shower 
of golden guineas fell to the floor, and rolled to the four corners of the 
room. The general quickly stooped to pick up one ; but no sooner had 
his fingers closed upon it than he uttered a yell. It was red-hot. 

The devil chuckled. " Try again," he said. 

But Hampton shook his head, and retreated a step. 

" Don't be afraid." 

Hampton cautiously touched a coin. It was cool. He weighed it in 
his hand, and rung it on the table. It was full weight and true ring. 
Then he went down on his hands and knees, and began to gather up 
the guineas with feverish haste. 

" Are you satisfied ?" demanded Satan. 

"Completely, your majesty." 

" Then to business. By-the-way, have you anything to drink in the 
house .'" 

" There is some Old Jamaica in the cuplward." 

" Excellent. I am as thirsty as a Puritan on election-day," said the 
devil, seating himself at the table and negligently flinging his mantle 
back over his shoulder. 

Hampton brought a decanter and a couple of glasses from the cup- 
board, filled one and passed it to his infernal guest, who tasted it, and 
smacked his lips with the air of a connoisseur. Hampton watched every 
gesture. " Does your excellency not find it to his taste .''" he ventured 
to ask. 

" H'm, I have drunk worse ; but let me show you how to make a 
salamander," replied Satan, touching the lighted end of the taper to the 
liquor, which instantly burst into a spectral blue flame. The fiend then 
raised the tankard, glanced approvingly at the blaze — which to Hamp- 
ton's disordered intellect resembled an adder's forked and agile tongue 
— nodded, and said, patronizingly, " To our better acquaintance." He 
then quaffed the contents at a single gulp. 



INCOMPARABLE W I N N I P I S E O G E E . 13 

Hampton shuddered. This was not the way he had been used to 
seeing healths drunk. He pretended, however, to drink, for fear of giv- 
ing offence, but somehow the Hquor choked him. The demon set down 
the tankard, and observed, in a matter-of-fact way that put his Hstener in 
a cold sweat, 

"Now^ that you are convinced I am able to make you the richest 
man in all the province, listen. In consideration of your agreement, 
duly signed and sealed, to deliver your soul" — here he drew a parch- 
ment from his breast—" I engage, on my part, on the first day of every 
month, to fill your boots with golden elephants like these before you. 
But mark me well," said Satan, holding up a forefinger glittering with 
diamonds ; " if you try to play me any trick you will repent it. I know 
you, Jonathan Hampton, and shall keep my eye upon you. So beware !" 
Hampton flinched a little at this plain speech ; but a thought seemed 
to strike him, and he brightened up. Satan opened the scroll, smoothed 
out the creases, dipped a pen in the inkhorn at his girdle, and pointing 
to a blank space said, laconically, " Sign !" 
Hampton hesitated. 

" If you are afraid," sneered Satan, '■ why put me to all this trouble T 
And he began to put the gold in his pocket. 

His victim seized the pen, but his hand shook so he could not write. 
He gulped down a swallow of rum, stole a look at his infernal guest, 
who "nodded his head by way of encouragement, and a second time ap- 
proached his pen to the paper. The struggle was soon over. The un- 
happy Hampton wrote his name at the bottom of the fatal list, which he 
was astonished to see numbered some of the highest personages in the 
province. " I shall at least be in good company," he muttered. 

" Good !" said Satan, rising and putting the scroll carefully within 
his breast. " Rely on me, general, and be sure you keep faith. Remem- 
ber !" So saying, the demon waved his hand, wrapped his mantle about 
him, and vanished up the chimney. 

Satan performed his part of the contract to the letter. On the first 
day of every month the boots, which were hung on the crane in the 
fireplace the night before, were found in the morning stuffed full of 
guineas. It is true that Hampton had ransacked the village for the 
fargest pair to be found, and had finally secured a brace of trooper's 
boots, which came up to the. wearer's thigh; but the contract merely 
expressed boots, and the devil does not stand upon trifles. 



14 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Hampton rolled in \vealth. Everything prospered. His neighbors 
regarded him first with envy, then with aversion, at last with fear. Not 
a few affirmed he had entered into a league with the Evil One. Others 
shook their heads, saying, " What does it signify ? tliat man would out- 
wit the devil himself." 

But one morning, when the fiend came as usual to fill the boots, 
what was his astonishment to find that he could not fill them. He 
poured in the guineas, but it was like pouring water into a rat -hole. 
The more he put in, the more the quantity seemed to diminish. In 
vain he persisted : the boots could not be filled. 

The devil scratched his ear. " I must look into this," he reflected. 
No sooner said than he attempted to descend, but found his progress 
suddenly arrested. The chimney was choked up with guineas. Foam- 
ing with rage, the demon tore the boots from the crane. The crafty 
general had cut off the soles, leaving only the legs for the devil to fill. 
The chamber was knee-deep with gold. 

The devil gave a horrible grin, and disappeared. The same night 
Hampton House was burnt to the ground, the general only escaping 
in his shirt. He had been dreaming he was dead and in hell. His 
precious guineas were secreted in the wainscot, the ceiling, and other 
hiding-places known only to himself. He blasphemed, wept, and tore 
his hair. Suddenly he grew calm. After all, the loss was not irrepara- 
ble, he reflected. Gold would melt, it is true ; but he would find it all, 
of course he would, at daybreak, run into a solid lump in the cellar — 
every guinea. That is true of ordinary gold. 

The general worked with the energy of despair clearing away the 
rubbish. He refused all offers of assistance : he dared not accept them. 
But the gold had vanished. Whether it was really consumed, or had 
passed again into the massy entrails of the earth, will never be known. 
It is certain that every vestige of it had disappeared. 

When the general died and was buried, strange rumors began to 
circulate. To quiet them, the grave was opened ; but when the lid was 
removed from the coffin, it was found to be empty. 

Having reached Centre Harbor at two in the afternoon, there was 
still time to ascend Red Hill before sunset. This eminence would be 
called a mountain anywhere else. Its altitude is inconsiderable, but its 
situation at the head of the lake, on its very borders, is highly favora- 
ble to a commanding prospect of the surrounding lake region. There 



INC O MP A RABLE WIN NIP IS ROGER. 



15 




WIVNIPISEOCEE FRUM 
RED HILL. 



are two summits, the north- 
ern and highest being only a 
Httle more than two thousand 
feet. -^ .. •■^''v- 

For such an excursion Httle _; "■ ^\ 

preparation is necessary. In fact a carriage- 
road ascends within a mile of the superior sum- 
mit; and from this point the path is one of the 

easiest I have ever traversed. The value of a pure atmosphere is so 
well understood by every mountain tourist that he will neglect no op- 



1 6 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

portunity which this thrice-fickle element offers him. This was a day 
of days. 

After a little promenade of two hours, or two hours and a half, I 
reached the cairn on the summit, from which a tattered signal-flag flut- 
tered in the breeze. Without extravagance, the view is one of the most 
•engaging that the eye ever looked upon. I had before me that beau- 
tiful valley extending between the Sandwich chain on the left and the 
Ossipee range on the right, the distance filled by a background of moun- 
tains. It was across this valley that we saw Mount Washington, while 
coming up the lake. But that noble peak was now hid. 

The first chain trending to the west threw one gigantic arm around 
the beautiful little Scjuam Lake, which like a magnificent gem sparkled 
at my feet. The second stretched its huge rampart along the eastern 
shores of Winnipiseogee. 

The surface of this valley is tumbled about in most charming dis- 
order. Three villages crowned as many eminences in the foreground; 
three little lakes, half hid in the middle distance, blue as turquoise, 
lighted the fading hues of field and forest. Hamlets and farms, groves 
and forests innumerable, were scattered broadcast over this inviting land- 
scape. The harvests were gathered, and the mellowed tints of green, 
orange, and gold resembled rich old tapestry. Men and animals looked 
like insects creeping along the roads. 

From this point of view the Sandwich Mountains took far greater 
interest and character, and I remarked that no two summits were pre- 
cisely alike in form or outline. Higher and more distant peaks peered 
curiously over their brawny shoulders from their lairs in the valley of 
the Pemigewasset ; but more remarkable, more weird than all, was the 
gigantic monolith which tops the rock-ribbed pile of Chocorua. The 
more I looked, the more this monstrous freak of nature fascinated. As 
the sun glided down the west, a ruddy glow tinged its pinnacle ; while 
the shadows lurking in the ravines stole up the mountain side and 
crouched for a final spring upon the summit. Little by little, twilight 
flowed over the valley, and a thin haze rose froni its surface. 

I had waited for this moment, and now turned to the lakes. Win- 
nipiseogee was visible throughout its whole length, the multitude of 
islands peeping above it giving the idea of an inundation rather than 
an inland sea. On the farthest shores mere specks of white denoted 
houses; and traced in faint relief on the southern skv. so unsubstantial, 



INCOMPARABLE W INNIP I SEO G E E. 17 

indeed, as to render it doubtful if it were sky or mountain, was the 
Grand Monadnock,- the fixed sentinel of all this august assemblage of 
mountains. 

Glowing in sunset splendor, streaked with all the hues of the rain- 
bow, the lake was indeed magnificent. 

In vain the eye roved hither and thither seeking some foil to this 
peerless beauty. Everywhere the same unrivalled picture led it captive 
over thirty miles of gleaming water, up the graceful curves of the moun- 
tains, to rest at last among crimson clouds floating in rosy vapor over 
their notched summits. 

Imagination must assist the reader to reproduce this ravishing spec- 
tacle. To attempt to describe it is like a profanation. Paradise seemed 
to have opened wide its gates to my enraptured gaze ; or had I surprised 
the secrets of the unknown world .^ I stood silent and spellbound, with 
a strange, exquisite feeling at the heart. I felt a thrill of pain when 
a voice from the forest broke the solemn stillness which alone befitted 
this almost supernatural vision. Now I understood the pagan's adora- 
tion of the sun. My mind ran over the most striking or touching inci- 
dents of Scripture, where the sublimity of the scene is always in har- 
mony with the grandeur of the event— the Temptation, the Sermon on 
the Mount, the Transfiguration— and memory brought to my aid these 
words, so simple, so tender, yet so expressive, " And he went up into the 
mountain to pray, himself, alone." 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 



III. 
CHOCORUA. 

" There I saw above me mountains. 
And I asked of them what century 
Met them in their youth." 

AFTER a stay at Centre Harbor long enough to gain a knowledge 
of its charming environs, but which seemed all too brief. I took the 
stage at two o'clock one sunny afternoon for Tamworth. I had re- 
solved, if the following morning should be clear, to ascend Chocorua, 
which from the summit of Red Hill seemed to fling his defiance from 
afar. 

Following my custom, I took an outside seat with the driver. There 
being only three or four passengers, what is frequently a bone of conten- 
tion was settled without that display of impudent selfishness which is 
seen when a dozen or more travellers are all struggling for precedence. 
But at the steamboat landing the case was different. I remained a 
quiet looker-on of the scene that ensued. It was sufficiently ridiculous. 

At the moment the steamboat touched her pier the passengers pre- 
pared to spring to the shore, and force had to be used to keep them 
back until she could be secured. An instant after the crowd rushed 
pell-mell up the wharf, surrounded the stage, and began, women as well 
as men, a promiscuous scramble for the two or three unoccupied seats 
at the top. 

Two men and one woman succeeded in obtaining the prizes. The 
woman interested me by the intense triumph that sparkled in her black 
eves and glowed on her cheeks at having distanced several competitors 
of her own sex. to say nothing of the men. She beamed I As I made 
room for her. she said, with a toss of the head. " I guess I haven't been 
through Lake George for nothing. ' 

Crack I We were jolting along the road, around the base of Red 



CHOCORUA. 19 

Hill, the horses stepping briskly out at the driver's chirrup, the coach 
pitching and lurching like a gondola in a sea. What a sense of exhila- 
ration, of lightness ! The air so pure and elastic, the odor of the pines 
so fragrant, so invigorating, which we breathe with all the avidity of a 
convalescent who for the first time crosses the threshold of his chamber. 
Each moment I felt my body growing lighter. A delicious sense of self- 
ownership breaks the chain binding us to the toiling, struggling, worry- 
ing life we have left behind. We carry our world with us. Life begins 
anew, or rather it has only just begun. 

The view of the ranges which on either side elevate two immense 
walls of green is kept for nearly the whole distance. As we climb the 
hill into .Sandwich, Mount Israel is the prominent object ; then brawny 
Whiteface, Passaconnaway's pyramid, Chocorua's mutilated spire ad- 
vance, in their turn, into line. Sometimes we were in a thick forest, 
sometimes on a broad, sunny glade ; now threading our way through 
groves of pitch-pine, now winding along the banks of the Bear- Camp 
River. 

The views of the mountains, as the afternoon wore away, grew more 
and more interesting. The ravines darkened, the summits brightened. 
Cloud -shadows chased each other up and down the steeps, or, flitting 
slowly across the valley, spread thick mantles of black that seemed 
to deaden the sound of our wheels as we passed over them. On one 
side all was light, on the other all gloom. But the landscape is not all 
that may be seen to advantage from the top of a stage-coach. 

From time to time, as something provoked an exclamation of sur- 
prise or pleasure, certain of the inside occupants manifested open dis- 
content. They were losing something where they had expected to see 
everything. 

While the horses were being changed, one of the insides, I need 
not say it was a woman, thrust her head out of the window, and ad- 
dressed the young person perched like a bird upon the highest seat. 
Her voice was soft and persuasive : 

" Miss !" 

" Madam !" 

" I'm so afraid you find it too cold up there. Sha'n't I change places 
with you ?" 

The little one gave her voice a droll inflection as she briskly replied, 
"Oh dear no, thank you; I'm very comfortable indeed." 

5* 



20 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

"But," urj^cd the other, "you don't look strong; indeed, dear, you 
don't. Aren't vou very, very tired, sitting so long without any support 
to your back ?" 

" Thanks, no ; my spine is the strongest part of me." 
" But," still persisted the inside, changing her voice to a loud whis- 
per, " to be sitting alone with all those men !" 




"ALONE WITH ALL TlloSE MEN"!" 



" They mind their business, and I mind mine," said the little one, red- 
dening; " besides," she quickly added, " you proposed changing places, I 
believe !" 

"Oh!" returned the other, with an accent impossible to convey in 
words, " if you like it." 

" I tell you what, ma'am," snapped the one in possession, " I've 



CHOCORUA. 2 1 

been all over Europe alone, and was never once insulted except by per- 
sons of my own sex." 

This home -thrust ended the colloquy. The first speaker quickly 
drew in her head, and I remarked a general twitching of muscles on the 
faces around me. The driver shook his head in silent glee. The little 
woman's eyes emitted sparks. 

From West Ossipee I drove over to Tamworth Iron Works, where I 
passed the night, and where I had, so to speak, Chocorua under my thumb. 

This mountain being the most proper for a legend, it accordingly 
has one. Here it is in all its purity : 

After the terrible battle in which the Sokokis were nearly destroyed, 
a remnant of the tribe, with their chief, Chocorua, fled into the fast- 
nesses of these mountains, where the foot of a white man had never 
intruded. Here they trapped the beaver, speared the salmon, and hunt- 
ed the moose. 

The survivors of Lovewell's band brought the first news of their dis- 
aster to the settlements. More like spectres than living men, their hag- 
gard looks, bloodshot eyes, and shaking limbs, their clothing hanging 
about them in shreds, announced the hardships of that long and terrible 
march but too plainly. 

Among those who had set out with the expedition were three broth- 
ers — one a mere stripling, the others famous hunters. The eldest of the 
three, having fallen lame on the second day, was left behind. His 
brethren would have conducted him back to the nearest village, but he 
promptly refused their proffered aid, saying, 

" 'Tis enough to lose one man; three are too many. Go; do my 
part as well as your own." 

The two had gone but a few steps when the disabled ranger called 
the second brother back. 

" Tom," said the elder, " take care of our brother." 

" Surely," replied the other, in some surprise. " Surely," he repeated. 

" I charge you," continued the first speaker, " watch over the boy as 
1 would myself." 

" Never fear. Lance; whatever befalls Hugh happens to me," 

"Not so," said the other, with energy; "you must die for him, if 
need be." 

" They shall chop me as fine as sausage-meat before a hair of the 
lad's head is harmed." 



22 THE HEART OF THE WHITE. MOUNTAINS. 

" God bless you, Tom !" The brothers then embraced and separated. 

"What was our brother saying to you?" demanded the younger, 
when Tom rejoined him. 

" He beo-o-ed me, seeing he could not go with us, to shoot two or 
three redskins for him; and I promised." The two then quickened 
their pace in order to overtake their comrades. 

Among those who succeeded in regaining the settlements was a man 
who had been wounded in twenty places. He was at once a ghastly 
and a pitiful object. Faint with hunger, fatigue, and loss of blood, he 
reeled, fell, slowly rose to his feet, and sunk lifeless at the entrance to 
the village. This time he did not rise again. 

A crowd ran up. When they had wiped the blood and dirt from the 
dead man's face, a by-stander threw himself upon the body with the cry, 
" My God, it is Tom I" 

The following day the surviving brother joined a strong party de- 
spatched by the colonial authorities to the scene of Lovewell's en- 
counter, where they arrived after a forced march. Here, among the 
trampled thickets, they found the festering corpses of the slain. Among 
them was Hugh, the younger brother. He was riddled with bullets and 
shockingly mangled. Up to this moment. Lance had hoped against 
hope ; now the dread reality stared him in the face. The stout ranger 
grew white, his fingers convulsively clutched the barrel of his gun, and 
something like a curse escaped through his clinched teeth ; then, kneel- 
ing beside the body, he buried his face in his hands. Hugh's blood cried 
aloud for vengeance. 

Thorough but unavailing search was made for the savages. They 
had disappeared, after applying the torch to their village. Silently and 
sadly the rangers performed the last service for their fallen comrades, 
and then, turning their backs upon the mountains, commenced their 
march homeward. 

The ne.xt day the absence of Lance was remarked ; but, as he was 
their best hunter, the rangers made no doubt he would rejoin them at 
the next halt. 

Chocorua was not ignorant that the English were near. Like the 
vulture, he scented danger from afar. From the summit of the mountain 
he had watched the smoke of the hostile camp-fires stealing above the 
forest. The remainder of the tribe had buried themselves still deeper 
in the wilderness. Thev were too few for attack, too weak for defence. 



CHOCORUA. 



23 



One morning the chief ascended the pinnacle, and swept the horizon 
with his piercing eye. Far in the south a faint smoke told where the 
foe had pitched his last encampment. Chocorua's dark eye lighted with 
exultation. The accursed pale-faces were gone. 

He turned to descend the mountain, but had not taken ten steps 
when a white hunter, armed to the teeth, started from behind the crags 
and barred his passage. The chief recoiled, but not with fear, as the 
muzzle of his adversary's weapon touched his naked breast. The white 
man's eyes shone with deadly purpose, as he forced the chieftain, step 
by step, back to the highest point of the mountain. Chocorua could not 
pass except over the hunter's dead body. 

Glaring into each other's eyes with mortal hate, the two men reached 
the summit. 

" Chocorua will go no farther," said the chief, haughti!)^ 

The white man trembled with excitement. For a moment he could 
not speak. Then, in a voice husky with suppressed emotion, he ex- 
claimed, 

" Die, then, like a dog, thou destroj'er of my family, thou incarnate 
devil ! The white man has been in Chocorua's wigwam ; has counted 
their scalps — father, mother, sister, brother. He has tracked him to the 
mountain-top. Now, demon or devil, Chocorua dies by my hand." 

The chief saw no escape. He comprehended that his last moment 
was come. As if all the savage heroism of his race had come to his 
aid, he drew himself up to his full height, and stood erect and motion- 
less as a statue of bronze upon the enormous pedestal of the moimtain. 
His dark eye blazed, his nostrils dilated, the muscles of his bronzed fore- 
head stood out like whip-cord. The black eagle's feather in his scalp- 
lock fluttered proudly in the cool morning breeze. He stood thus for a 
moment looking death sternly in the face, then, raising his bared arm 
with a gesture of superb disdain, he spoke with energy: 

" Chocorua is unarmed ; Chocorua will die. His heart is big and 
strong with the blood of the accursed pale -face. He laughs at death. 
He spits in the white man's face. Go ; tell your warriors Chocorua 
died like a chief!" 

With this defiance on his lips the chief sprung from the brink into 
the unfathomable abyss below. An appalling crash was followed by a 
death-like silence. As soon as he recovered from his stupor the hunter 
ran to the verge of the precipice and looked over. A horrible fascina- 



24 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



m^ *: 





:lk^^ 



PASSACONNAWAY FROM THE BEAR- 
CAMP RIVER. 



tion held him an instant. Then, 
shouldering his gun, he retraced his steps down 
the mountain, and the next day rejoined his comrades. 

The general and front \ie\vs of the Sandwich group, which may be 
had in perfection from the hill behind the Chocorua House, or from the 
opposite elevation, are very striking, embracing as they do the principal 
summits from Chocorua to the heavy mass of Black Mountain. There 
are more distinct traits, perhaps, embodied in this range than in any 
other among the White Hills, except that incomparable band of peaks 
constituting the northern half of the great chain itself. There seems, 
too, a special fitness in designating these mountains by their Indian 
titles — Chocorua, Paugus, Passaconnaway, Wonnalancet — a group of 
great sagamores, wild, grand, picturesque.' 



' No tradition attaches to the last three peaks. Passaconnawas' was a great chieftain and 
conjurer of the Pennacooks. It is of him the poet Whittier writes: 



ruined for him the drifted snow, 
liade through ice fresh lilies blow. 
And the leaves of summer grow 



This noted patriarch and necromancer, in whose arts not only the Indians bnt the English 



CHOCORUA. 25 

The highway now skirted the margin of Chocorua Lake, a lovely lit- 
tle sheet of water voluptuously reposing at the foot of its overshadowing 
mountain. I cannot call Chocorua beautiful, yet of all the White Moun- 
tain peaks is it the most individual, the most aggressively suggestive. 
But the lake, fast locked in the embrace of encircling hills, bathed in all 
the afifluence of the blessed sunlight, its bosom decorated with white 
lilies, its shores glassed in water which looks like a sheet of satin — ah, 
this was beautiful indeed ! Its charming seclusion, its rare combination 
of laughing water and impassive old mountains ; above all, the striking 
contrast between its chaste beauty and the huge -ribbed thing rising 
above, awakens a variety of sensations. It is passing strange. The 
mountain attracts, and at the same time repels you. Two sentiments 
struggle here for mastery — open admiration, energetic repulsion. For 
the first time, perhaps, in his life, the beholder feels an antipathy for a 
creation of inanimate nature. Chocorua suggests some fabled prodigy 
of the old mythology — a headless Centaur, sprung from the foul womb 
of earth. The lake seems another Andromeda exposed to a monster. 

A beautiful Indian legend ran to the effect that the stillness of the 
lake was sacred to the Great Spirit, and that if a human voice was heard 
upon its waters the offender's canoe would instantly sink to the bottom. 

Chocorua, as seen from Tamworth, shows a long, undulating ridge of 
white rising over one of green, both extending toward the east, and open- 
ing between a deep ravine, through which a path ascends to the summit. 
But this way affords no view until the summit is close at hand. Be- 
yond the hump-backed ridge of Chocorua the tip of the southern peak 
of Moat Mountain peers over, like a mountain standing on tiptoe. 

The mountain, with its formidable outworks, is constantly in view 
until the highway is left for a wood-road winding around its base into 
an interval where there is a farm-house. Here the road ends and the 
ascent begins. 

Taking a guide here, who was strong, nimble, and sure-footed, but 
who proved to be lamentably ignorant of the topography of the country, 
we were in a few moments rapidly threading the path up the mountain. 



seemed to have put entire faith, after living to a great age, was, according to the tradition, 
translated to heaven from the summit of Mount Washington, after the manner of Elias, in a 
chariot of fire, surrounded by a tempest of flame. Wonnalancet was the son and successor of 
Passaconnaway. Paugus, an under chief of the Pigwaclcets, or Solcokis, Icilled in the battle 
with Lovewell. related in the next chapter. 

6 



26 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

It ought to be said here that, with rare exceptions, the men who serve 
you in these ascensions should be regarded rather as porters than as 
guides. 

In about an liour we reached the summit of the first mountain; for 
there are four subordinate ridges to cross before you stand under tlie 
single block of granite forming the pinnacle. 




;-HocoRrA. 



When reconnoitring this pinnacle through 3-our glass, at a distance 
of five miles, you will say to scale it would be difficult ; when you have 
climbed close underneath you will say it is impossible. After surveying 
it from the bare ledges of I5ald Mountain, where we stood letting the 
cool breeze blow upon us, I asked my guide where we could ascend. 
He pointed out a long crack, or crevice, toward the left, in which a few 
bushes were growing. It is narrow, almost perpendicular, and seem- 
ingly impracticable. I could not help exclaiming, "What, up there! 
nothing but birds of the air can mount that sheer wall !" It is, however, 
there or nowhere you must ascend. 

The whole upper zone of the mountain seems smitten with palsy. 



CHOCORUA. 27 

Except in the ra\'ines between the inferior summits, nothing grew, noth- 
ing relieved the wide-spread desolation. Beyond us rose the enormous 
conical crag, scarred and riven by lightning, which gives to Chocorua its 
highly distinctive character. It is no longer ashen, but black with lich- 
ens. There was little of symmetry, nothing of grace ; only the grandeur 
of power. You might as well pelt it with snow-balls as batter it with 
the mightiest artillery. For ages it has brushed the tempest aside, has 
seen the thunder -bolt shivered against its imperial battlements; for 
ages to come it will continue to defy the utmost power that can assail 
it. And what enemies it has withstood, overthrown, or put to rout ! 
Not far from the base of the pinnacle evidence that the mountain was 
once densely wooded is on all sides. The rotted stumps of large trees 
still cling with a death -grip to the ledges, the shrivelled trunks lie 
bleaching where they were hurled by the hurricane. Many years ago 
this region was desolated by fire. In the night Old Chocorua, lighting 
his fiery torch, stood in the midst of his own funeral pyre. The burn- 
ing mountain illuminated the sky and put out the stars. A brilliant 
circle of light, twenty miles in extent, surrounded the flaming peak like 
a halo ; while underneath an immense tongue of forked flame licked the 
sides of the summit with devouring haste. The lakes, those bright jew- 
els lying in the lap of the valleys, glowed like enormous carbuncles. 
Superstitious folk regarded the conflagration as a portent of war or pes- 
tilence. In the morning a few charred trunks, standing erect, were all 
that remained of the original forest. The rocks themselves bear witness 
to the intense heat which has either cracked them wide open, crumbled 
them in pieces, or divested them, like oysters, of their outer shell, all 
along the path of the conflagration. 

The walk over the lower summits to the base of the peak occupied 
another hour, and is a most profitable feature of the ascent. On each 
side a superb panorama of mountains and lakes, of towns, villages, and 
hamlets, is being slowly unrolled ; while every forward step develops 
the inaccessible character of the high summit more and more. 

Hax'ing strayed from the path to gather blueberries, my companion 
set me again on the march by pointing out where a bear had been feed- 
ing not long before. Yet, while assuring me that Bruin w^as perfectly 
harmless at this season, I did not fail to remark that my guide made the 
most rapid strides of the day after this discovery. While feeling our 
way around the base of the pinnacle, in order to gain the ravine by 



28 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOLWTAIA'S. 

which it is attacked, the patli suddenly stopped. At the right, project- 
ing rocks, affording a hold for neither hand nor foot, rose like a wall ; 
before us, joined to the perpendicular rock, an unbroken ledge of bare 
granite, smoothly polished by ice, swept down by a sharp incline hun- 
dreds of feet, and then broke off abruptly into profounder depths. To 
advance upon this ledge, as steep as a roof, and where one false step 
would inevitably send the climber rolling to the bottom of the ravine, 
demands steady nerves. It invests the whole jaunt with just enough of 
the perilous to excite the apprehensions, or provoke the enthusiasm of 
the individual who stands there for the first time, looking askance at his 
guide, and revolving the chances of crossing it in safety. While debat- 
ing with myself whether to take off my boots, or go down on my hands 
and knees and creep, the guide crossed this place with a steady step ; 
and, upon reaching the opposite side, grasped a fragment of rock with 
one hand while extending his staff to me with the other. Rather than 
accept his assistance, I passed over with an assurance I was far from 
feeling; but when we came down the mountain I walked across with 
far more ease in my stockings.' 

When he saw me safely over, my conductor moved on, with the 
remark, 

" A skittish place." 

" Skittish," indeed ! We proceeded to drag ourselves up the ravine 
by the aid of bushes, or such protruding rocks as offered a hold. From 
the \alley below we must have looked like flies creeping up a wall. 
After a breathless scramble, which put me in mind of the escalade of 
the Iron Castle of Porto Bello, where the English, having no scaling-lad- 
ders, mounted over each other's shoulders, we came to a sort of plateau, 
on which was a ruined hut. The view here is varied and extensive ; but 
after regaining our breath we hastened to complete the ascent, in order 
to enjoy, in all its perfection, the prospect awaiting us on the summit. 

Like Goethe's Wilhelm Meister, it is among mountains that my 
knowledge of them has been obtained. I have little hesitation, then, in 
pronouncing the view from Chocorua one of the noblest that can reward 
the adventurous climber; for, notwithstanding it is not a high peak, and 
cannot, therefore, unfold the whole mountain system at a glance, it yet 



' Something has since been done by the Appalachian Club to render this part of the as- 
cent less hazardous than it formerly was. 



CHOCORUA. 29 

affords an unsurpassed view-point, from which one sees the surrounding 
mountains rising on all sides in all their majesty, and clothed in all their 
terrors. 

Let me try to explain why Chocorua is such a remarkable and eligi- 
ble post of observation. 

One comprehends perfectly that the last high building on the skirts 
of a city embraces the largest unobstructed view of the surrounding 
country. This mountain is placed at the extremity of a range that abuts 
upon the lower Saco valley, and therefore overlooks all the hill-country 
on the east and south-east as far as the sea-coast. The arc of this circle 
of vision extends from the Camden Hills to Agamenticus, or from the 
Penobscot to the Piscataqua. The day being one of a thousand, I dis- 
tinctly saw the ocean with the naked eye ; not merely as a white blur 
on the horizon's edge, but actual blue water, over which smoke was curl- 
ing. This magnificent coiip-d'ceil embraces the scattered villages of 
Conway, Fryeburg, Madison, Eaton, Ossipee, with their numerous lakes 
and streams. I counted seventeen of the former flashing in the sun. 

In the second place, Chocorua stands at the entrance to the valley 
opening between the Sandwich and Ossipee chains, and commands, 
therefore, to the south-west, between these natural walls, the northern 
limb of Winnipiseogee and of Squam, which are seen glittering on each 
side of Red Hill. In the foreground, at the foot of the mountain, Cho- 
corua Lake is beyond question the most enticing object in a landscape 
wonderfully lighted and enriched by its profusion of brilliant waters, 
which resemble so many highly burnished reflectors multiplying the 
rays of the sun. I was now looking back to my first station on Red 
Hill, only the range of vision was much more extensive. It is unneces- 
sary to recapitulate the names of the villages and summits seen in this 
direction. Over the lakes, Winnipiseogee and Squam, the humid peaks 
of Mount Belknap and of Mount Kearsarge, in Warner, last caught the 
eye. These two sections of the landscape first meet the eye of the 
climber while advancing toward the peak, whose rugged head and 
braw'ny shoulders intercept the view to the north, only to be enjoyed 
when the mountain is fully conquered. 

Upon the cap-stone crowning the pinnacle, supporting myself by 
grasping the signal-staff planted on the highest point of this rock, from 
which the wind threatened to sweep us like chaff, I enjoyed the third 
and final act of this sublime tableau, in which the whole company of 



30 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

mountains is crowded upon the stage. Hundreds of dark and bristling 
shapes confronted us. Like a horde of barbarians, they seemed silently 
awaiting the signal to march upon the lowlands. As the wind swept 
through their ranks, an impatient munnur rose from the midst. Each 
mountain shook its myriad spears, and gave its voice to swell the sub- 
lime chorus. At first all was confusion ; then I began to seek out the 
chiefs, whose rock-helmed heads, lifted high above their grisly battalions, 
invested each with a distinction and a sovereignty which yielded noth- 
ing except to that imperial peak over which attendant clouds hovered or 
floated swiftly away, as if bearing a message to those distant encamp- 
ments pitched on the farthest verge of the horizon. 

At my left hand extended all the summits, forming at their western 
extremity the valley of Mad River, and tenninating in the immovable 
mass of Black Mountain. The peaks of Tripyramid, Tecumseh, and 
Osceola stretched along the northern course of this stream, and over 
them gleamed afar the massive plateau -ridge of Moosehillock. From 
my stand-point the great wall of the Sandwich chain, which from Tam- 
worth presents an unbroken front to the south, now divided into ridges 
running north and south, separated by profound ravines. Paugus 
crouched at my feet; Passaconnaway elevated his fine crest next; White- 
face, his lowered and brilliant front ; and then Black Mountain, the giant 
landmark of half a score of towns and villages. 

Directly at my feet, to the north-west, the great inteiwale of Swift 
River gleamed from the depths of this valley, like sunshine from a 
storm-cloud. Following the course of this little oasis, the eye wandered 
over the inaccessible and untrodden peaks of the Pemigewasset wilder- 
ness, resting last on the blue ridge of the Franconia Mountains. About 
midway of this line one sees the bristling slopes of Mounts Carrigain 
and Hancock, and the Carrigain Notch, through which a hardy pedes- 
trian may pass from the Pemigewasset to the Saco by following the 
course of the streams flowing out of it. Besides its solitary, picturesque 
grandeur, Carrigain has the distinction of being the geographical centre 
of the White Mountain group. Taking its peak for an axis, a radius 
thirty miles long will describe a circle, including in its sweep nearly the 
whole mountain system. In this sense Carrigain is, therefore, the hub 
of the White Mountains. 

Having explored the horizon thus far, I now turned more to the 
north, where, by a fortunate chance, Chocorua dominates a portion of 



CHOCO RUA. 



31 



the chain intervening between itself and the Saco Vallev. I was look- 
ing straight up this valley through the great White Mountain Notch. 
There was the dark spire of Mount Willey, and the scarred side of 
Webster. There was the arched rock of Mount Willard, and over it 
the liquid profile of Cherry Mountain. It was superb; it was idyllic. 
Such was the perfect transparency of the air, that I clearly distinguished 
the red color of the slides on Mount Webster without the aid of my 
glass. 

From this centre, outlined with a bold, free hand against the azure, 
the undulations of the great White Mountains ascended grandly to the 
dome of Mount Washington, and then plunged into the defiles of the 
Pinkham Notch. Following this line eastward, the eye traversed the 
mountains of Jackson to the half-closed aperture of the Carter Notch, 
finally resting on the pinnacle of Kearsarge. Without stirring a single 
step, we have taken a journey of three hundred miles. 

Down in the valley the day was one of the sultriest ; up here it was 
so cold that our teeth chattered. We were forced to descend into the 
hollow lying between the northerly foot of the peak and the first of the 
bald knobs constituting the great white ridge of the mountain. Here 
is a fine spring, and here, on either side of this singular rock-gallery, is 
a landscape of rare beauty enclosed by its walls. Here, too, the muti- 
lated pyramid of the peak rises before you like an antique ruin. One 
finds, without effort, striking resemblances to winding galleries, bastions, 
and battlements. He could pass days and weeks here without a single 
wish to return to earth. Here we ate our luncheon, and perused the 
landscape at leisure. Before us stretched the long course of the Saco, 
from its source in the Notch to where, with one grand sweep to the east, 
it takes leave of the mountains, flows aw^hile demurely through the low- 
lands, and in two or three infuriated plunges reaches the sea. 

I do not remember when I have more fully enjoyed the serene calm 
of a Sabbath evening than while wandering among the fragrant and 
stately pines that skirt the shores of Lake Chocorua. Indeed, except 
for the occasional sound of hoofs along the cool and shady road, or of 
voices coming from the bosom of the lake itself, one might say a per- 
petual Sabbath reigned here. Yonder tall, athletic pines, those palms of 
the north, through which the glimmer of water is seen, hum their mo- 
notonous lullaby to the drowsy lake. The mountains seem so many 
statues to Silence. There is no use for speech here. The mute and 



32 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

expressive language of two lovers, accustomed to read each others' secret 
thoughts, is the divine medium. Truant breezes ruffle the foliage in 
playful wantonness, but the trees only shake their green heads and mur- 
mur " Hush ! hush !" A consecration is upon the mere, a hallowed light 
within the wood. Here is the place to linger over the pages of " Hype- 
rion," or dream away the idle hours with the poets ; and here, stretched 
along the turf, one gets closer to Nature, studying her with ever-increas- 
ing wonder and delight, or musing upon the thousand forms of mysteri- 
ous life swarming in the clod under his hand. 

Charmins:, too, are the walks bv the lake -side in the effulgence of 
the harvest-moon ; and enchanting the white splendor quivering on its 
dark waters. A boat steals by ; see ! its oars dip up molten silver. 
The voyagers troll a love-ditty. Dangerous ground this colonnade of 
woods and yonder sparkling water for self-conscious lovers ! Love and 
the ocean have the same subtle sympathy with moonlight. The stronger 
its beams the higher rises the flood. 

Very little of the world — but that little the best part — gets in here. 
It is out of the beaten path of mountain-travel, so that those only who 
have in a manner served their apprenticeship are sojourners. One small 
hotel and a few boarding-houses easil)- accommodate all comers. For 
people who like to refine their pleasures, as well as their society, or who 
have wearied of life at the great hotels, such a place offers a most tempt- 
ing retreat. Display makes no part of the social regime. Mrs. P is 

not jealous of Mrs. O 's diamonds. Ladies stroll about unattended, 

gather water-lilies, cardinal-flowers, and rare ferns by brook or way-side. 
Gentlemen row, drive, climb the mountains, or make little pedestrian 
tours of discovery. Quiet people are irresistibly attracted to this kind 
of life, which, with a good degree of probability, they assert to be the 
true and only rational way of enjoying the mountains. 



LUVF.U'ELL. 



IV. 

LOVEWELL. 

Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing, 
How valiantly he served his country and his king. 

Old Ballad. 

LET us make a detour to historic Fryeburg, leaving the cars at Con- 
way, which in former times enjoyed a happy pre-eminence as the 
centre upon which the old stage -routes converged, and where travellers, 
going or returning from the mountains, always passed the night. But 
those old travellers have mostly gone where the name of Chatigee, by 
which both drivers and tourists liked to designate Conway, is going; 
only there is for the name, fortunately, no resurrection. No one knows 
its origin ; none will mourn its decease. 

It is here, at Conway, or Conway Corner, that first enrapturing view 
of the White Mountains bursts upon the traveller like a splendid vision. 
But we shall see it again on our return from F"ryeburg. Moreover, I 
enjoyed this constant espionage from a distance before a nearer ap- 
proach, this exchange of preliminary civilities before coming closer to 
the heart of the mountains. 

Fryeburg stands on a dry and sandy plain, elevated above the Saco 
River. It lies behind the mountain range, which, terminating in Con- 
way, compels the river to make a right angle. Turning these mountains, 
the river seems now to be in no hurry, but coils about the meadows in 
a manner that instantly recalls the famous Connecticut Ox-Bow. Cho- 
corua and Kearsarge are the two prominent figures in the landscape. 

The village street is most beautifully shaded by elms of great size, 
which, giving to each other an outstretched hand over the way, spring 
an arch of green high above, through which we look up and down. At 
one end justice is dispensed at the Oxford House— an inn with a pedi- 
gree; at the other learning is diffused in the academy where Webster 

7 



34 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



I E r 




once taught and disciplined the rising gen- 
eration. A scroll over the inn door bears 
the date of 1 763. The first school-house and 
the first framed house built in Fryeburg are still standing, a little way 
out of the village. On our way to the remarkable rock, emerging from 
the plain like a walrus from the sea, we linger a moment in the village 
graveyard to read the long inscription on the monument of General 
Joseph Frye, a veteran of the old wars, and founder of the town which 
bears his name. Ascending now the rock to which we just referred, 
called the Jockey Cap, we are lifted high above the plain, having the 
river meadows, the graceful loops of the river itself, the fine pyramid of 
Kearsarge on one side, and on the other the dark sheet of Lovewell's 
Pond stretched at our feet. 

It was here, under the shadow of Mount Kearsarge, was fought one of 
the bloodiest and most obstinately contested battles that can be found in 
the annals of war; so terrible, indeed, that the story was repeated from 
fireside to fireside, and from generation to generation, as worthy a niche 
beside that of Leonidas and his band of heroes. Familiar as is the tale 
— and who does not 'know it by heart .■' — it can still send the blood 
throbbing to the temples, or coursing back to the heart. Unfortunately, 
the details are sufficiently meagre, but, in truth, they need no embellish- 
ment. Their very simplicity presents the tragedy in all its grandeur. 
It is an epic. 

In April, 1725, John Lovewell, a hardy and experienced ranger of 
Dunstable, whose exploits had already noised his fame abroad, marched 
with forty-six men for the Indian villages at Pigwacket, now Fryeburg, 
Maine. At Ossipee he built a small fort, designed as a refuge in case 
of disaster. This precaution undoubtedly saved the lives of some of his 



LOVE IV ELL. 



35 



men. He was now within two short marches of the enemy's village. 
The scouts having found Indian tracks in the neighborhood, Lovewell 
resumed his route, leaving one of his men who had fallen sick, his sur- 
geon, and eight men, to guard the fort. His command was now reduced 
to thirty-four officers and men. 

The rangers reached the shores of the beautiful lake which bears 
Lovewell's name, and bivouacked for the night. 

The night passed without an alarm ; but the sentinels who watched 
the encampment reported hearing strange noises in the woods. Love- 
well scented the presence of his enemy. 

In fact, on the morning of the 8th of May, while his band were on 
their knees seeking Divine favor in the approaching conflict, the report 
of a gun brought every man to his feet. Upon reconnoitring, a solitary 
Indian was discovered on a point of land about a mile from the camp. 

The leader immediately called his men about him, and told them that 
they must now quickly decide whether to fight or retreat. The men, 
with one accord, replied that they had not come so far in search of the 
enemy to beat a shameful retreat the moment he was found. Seeing 
his band possessed with this spirit, Lovewell then prepared for battle. 
The rangers threw off their knapsacks and blankets, looked to their 
primings, and loosened their knives and axes. The order was then 
given, and they moved cautiously out of their camp. Believing the 
enemy was in his front, Lo\'ewell neglected to place a guard over his 
baggage. 

Instead of plunging into the woods, the Indian who had alarmed the 
camp stood where he was first seen until the scouts fired upon him, 
when he returned the fire, wounding Lovewell and one other. Ensign 
Wyman then levelled his musket and shot him dead. The day began 
thus unfortunately for the English. Lovewell was mortally wounded in 
the abdomen, but continued to give his orders. 

After clearing the woods in their front without finding any more 
Indians, the rangers fell back toward the spot where they had deposited 
their packs. This was a sandy plain, thinly covered with pines, at the 
north-east end of the lake. 

During their absence, the Indians, led by the old chief, Paugus, 
whose name was a terror throughout the length and breadth of the 
English frontiers, stumbled upon the deserted encampment. Paugus 
counted the packs, and, finding his warriors outnumbered the rangers. 



-6 THE HEART OE THE IVHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

the wily chief placed them in ambush ; he di\nned that the English 
would return frr -successful scout sooner or later, and he pre- 

pared to repeat :.:- _ - used with such fatal effect at Bloody Brook, 
and at the defeat of Wadsworth. This consisted in arranging his sav- 
ages in a semicircle, the two wings of which, enveloping the rangers, 
would expose them to a murderous cross-fire at short musket-range. 

Without suspecting their danger. Lovewell's men fell into the fatal 
snare which the craft}- Paugus had thus spread for them. Hardly had 
they entered it when the g^ove blazed with a deadly volley, and re- 
sounded with the yells of the Indians. As if confident of their prey, 
they even left their coverts, and flun2^ therr. selves upon the English with 
a fur\' nothing could withstand. 

In this onset Lovewell, who, noiv.irn^ranaing his wound, bravely en- 
couraged his men -with voice and example, received a second wound, and 
fell. Two of his lieutenants were killed at his side; but with desperate 
valor the rangers charged up to the muzzles of the enemy's guns, killing 
nine, and sweeping the others before them. This gallant charge cost 
them eight killed, besides their captain ; two more were badly wounded. 

Twent\-three men had now to maintain the conflict with the whole 
Sokokis tribe. Their situation was indeed desperate. Relief was im- 
possible ; for they were fifty miles from the nearest English settlements. 
Their packs and pro\'isions were in the enemy's hands, and the woods 
swarmed with foes. To conquer or die was the only alternative. These 
devoted Englishmen despaired of conquering, but they prepared to die 
bravely. 

Ensign Wjtnan, on whom the command devolved after the death of 
Lovewell, was his worthy successor. Seeing the enemy stealing upon 
his flanks as if to surround him, he ordered his men to fall back to the 
shore of the lake, where their right was protected by a brook, and their 
left by a rocky point extending into the lake. A few large pines stood 
on the beach between. 

This manceu\T-e was executed under a hot fire, which still further 
thinned the ranks of the English. The Indians closed in upon them, 
filling the air with demoniac yells whenever a %-ictim fell. Assailing the 
whites with taunts, and shaking ropes in their faces, they cried out to 
them to yield. But to the repeated demands to surrender, the rangers 
replied onlj- with bullets. They thought of the fort and its ten defend- 
ers, and hoped, or rather prayed, for night. This hope, forlorn as it 



LOVE WELL. 37 

seemed, encouraged them to fight on, and tliey delivered their fire with 
fatal precision whenever an Indian showed himself. The English were 
in a trap, but the Indians dared not approach within reach of the lion's 
claws. 

While this long combat was proceeding, one of the English went to 
the lake to wash his gun, and, on emerging at the shore, descried an 
Indian in the act of cleansing his own. This Indian was Paugus. 

The ranger went to work like a man who comprehends that his life 
depends upon a second. The chief followed him in ever\- movement. 
Both charged their guns at the same instant. The Englishman threw 
his ramrod on the sand ; the Indian dropped his. 

" Me kill you," said Paugus, priming his weapon from his powder- 
horn. 

" The chief lies," retorted the undaunted ranger, striking the breech 
of his firelock upon the ground with such force that it primed itself. 
An instant later Paugus fell, shot through the heart. 

" I said I should kill you," muttered the victor, spurning the dead 
body of his enemy, and plunging into the thickest of the fight. 

Darkness closed the conflict, which had continued without cessation 
since ten in the morning. Little by little the shouts of the enemy grew 
feebler, and finally ceased. The English stood to their arms until mid- 
night, when, convinced that the savages had abandoned the sanguinary 
field of battle, they began their retreat toward the fort. Only nine 
were unhurt. Eleven were badly wounded, but were resolved to march 
with their comrades, though they died by the way. Three more were 
alive, but had received their death -wounds. One of these was Lieuten- 
ant Robbins, of Chelmsford. Knowing that he must be left behind, he 
begged his comrades to load his gun, in order that he might sell his life 
as dearly as possible when the savages returned to wreak their ven- 
geance upon the wounded. 

I have said that twenty -three men continued the fight after the 
bloody repulse in which Lovewell was killed. There were only twenty- 
two. The other, whose name the reader will excuse me from mention- 
ing, fled from the field and gained the fort, where he spread the report 
that Lovewell was cut to pieces, himself being the sole survivor. This 
intelligence, striking terror, decided the little garrison to abandon the 
fort, which was immediately done, and in haste. 

This was the crowning misfortune of the expedition. The rangers 



38 THE HEART OF THE Jl'H/TE MOUNTAINS. 

now became a band of panic-stricken fugitives. After incredible hard- 
ships, less than twenty starving, emaciated, and footsore men, half of 
them badly wounded, straggled into the nearest English settlements. 

The loss of the Indians could only be guessed; but the battle led to 
the immediate abandonment of their village, from which so many war- 
parties had formerly harassed the English. Paugus, the savage wolf, 
the implacable foe of the whites, was dead. His tribe forsook the graves 
of their fathers, nor rested until they had put many long leagues be- 
tween them and their pursuers. For them the advance of the English 
was the Juggernaut under whose wheels their race was doomed to jDcr- 
ish from the face of the earth. 



jv o r th con wa y. 39 



T 



V. 

NORTH CONU'A Y. 

" Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful bells 
Just undulates upon the listening ear, 
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote." 

HE entrance to North Conway is, without doubt, the most beauti- 
ful and imposing introduction to the high mountains. 
Although the traveller has for fifty miles skirted the outlying ranges, 
catching quick-shifting glimpses of the great summits, yet, when at last 
the train swings round the foot of the Moat range into the Saco Valley, 
so complete is the transition, so charming the picture, that not even the 
most apathetic can repress a movement of surprise and admiration. 
This is the moment when every one feels the inadequacy of his own 
conceptions. 

Nature has formed here a vast antechamber, into which you are ush- 
ered through a gate-way of mountains upon the numerous inner courts, 
galleries, and cloisters of her most secluded retreats. Here the moun- 
tains fall back before the impetuous flood of the Saco, which comes 
pouring down from the summit of the great Notch, white, and panting 
with the haste of its flight. Here the river gives rendezvous to several 
of its larger affluents — the East Branch, the Ellis, the Swift — and, like 
an army taking the field, their united streams, sweeping grandly around 
the foot of the last mountain range, emerge into the open country- 
Here the valley, contracted at its extremity between the gentle slope of 
Kearsarge and' the abrupt declivities of Moat, encloses an ellipse of ver- 
dant and fertile land ravishing to behold, skirted on one side by thick 
woods, behind which precipices a thousand feet high rise black and 
threatening, overlooked on the other by a high terrace, along ^ which 
the village is built. It is the inferior summit of Kearsarge. which de- 
scends by a long, regular slope to the intervale at its upper end, while a 



4° 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MO L'XTAIXS. 



secondarv ridge of the Moats, advancing on the opposite side, drops into 
it by a precipice. The superb silver-gray crest of Kearsarge is seen ris- 
ing in a regular pyramid behind the right shoulder of its lower summit. 
Ordinarily the house perched on the top is seen as distinctly as those in 
the village. It is the last in the village. 

Looking up through this verdant mountain park, at a distance of 
twenty miles, the imposing masses of the great summits seem scaling 
the skies. Then, heavily massed on the right, comes the Carter range, 
divided by the cup-shaped dip of the Carter Notch ; then the truncated 
cone of Double -Head; and then, with outworks firmly planted in the 
valley, the glittering pinnacle of Kearsarge. The mountain in front of 
you, looking up the village street, is Thorn Mountain, on the other side 
of which is Jackson, and the way up the Ellis \'alley to the Pinkham 
Notch, the Glen House, Gorham, and the Androscoggin. 

The traveller, who is ushered upon this splendid scene with the 
rapiditv of steam, perceives that he is at last among real mountains. 




and quickly yields to the indefinable charm which from this moment 
surrounds and holds him a willing captive. 

Looking across the meadow from the village street, the eye is stopped 
by an isolated ridge of bare, overhanging precipices. It is thrust out 
into the valley from Moat Mountain, of which it forms a part, present- 
ing two singular, regularly arched cliffs, seven hundred to nine hundred 
and fifty feet in height toward the village. The green forest underneath 
contrasts vividly with the lustrous black of these precipitous walls, 



NORTH CONWAY 



41 



which glisten brightly in the sunsliine, where they are wet by tiny 
streams flowing clown. On the nearest of these is a very curious resem- 
blance to the head and shoulders of a horse in the act of rearing, occa- 
sioned by a white incrustation on the face of the cliff. This accident 
gives to it the name of White Horse Ledge. All marriageable ladies, 
maiden or widow, run out to look at it, in consequence of the belief cur- 
rent in New England that if, after seeing a white horse, you count a 
hundred, the first gentleman you meet will be your future husband ! 
Underneath this cliff a charming little lake lies hid. 

Next beyond is the Cathedral Ledge, so called from the curious rock 
cavity it contains; and still farther up the valley is Humphrey's Ledge, 
one of the finest rock-studies of them all when we stand underneath it. 




But the reader now has a general acquaintance with North Conway, and 
with its topography. He begins his study of mountain beauty in a 
spirit of loving enthusiasm, which leads him on and on to the ripeness 
of an education achieved by simply throwing himself upon the bosom 
of indulgent Nature, putting the world as far as possible behind him. 

But now from these masses of hard rock let us turn once more to 
the valley, where the rich intervales spread an exhaustless feast for the 
eye. If autumn be the season, the vase -like elms, the stacks of yellow 
corn, the golden pumpkins looking like enormous oranges, the floor- 
cloth of green and gold damasked with purple gorse and coppice, give 
the idea of an immense table groaning beneath its luxurious weight of 
fruit and flowers. „ 



42 



THE- HEART OF THE IVHITE MOCXTAIXS. 



Turn now to the mountain presiding with such matchless grace and 
dignit}- over the village. Kearsarge, in the twilight, deserves, like Lo- 
renzo di Medicis, to be called " the magnificent." The yellow and 
orange foliage looks, for all the world, like a golden shower fallen upon 
it. The gray ledges at the apex, which the clear, yellow light renders 
almost incandescent, are far more in harmony with the rest of the moun- 
tain than in the vernal season. 

Are we yet in sympathy with that free-masonr}- of art through which 
our eminent landscape-painters recognized here the true picturesque 
point of view of the great mountains, the effective contrasts and har- 
monious ensemble of the near scenery — the grandest allied with the hum- 
blest objects of nature ? One cannot turn in any direction without rec- 
ognizing a picture he has seen in the studios, or in the saloons of the 
clubs. 

The first persons I saw on the platform of the railway-station were 
my quondam companions, the colonel and George. We met like 
friends who had parted only half an hour before. During dinner it 
was agreed that we should pass our afternoon among the cliffs. This 
arrangement appeared very judicious ; the distance is short, and the 
attractions many. 

We accordingly set out for the ledges at three in the afternoon. 
The weather did not look promising, to be sure, but we decided it suffi- 
cientlv so for this promenade of three or four hours. 

While C7i route, let me mention a discover}-. One morning, while sit- 
ting on the piazza of the Kearsarge House enjoying the dreamy influ- 
ence of the warm atmosphere, which spun its soft, gossamer web about 
the mountains, I observed a peculiar shadow thrown by a jutting mass 
of the Cathedral Ledge upon a smooth surface, which exactly resembled 
a human figure standing upright. I looked away, then back again, to 
see if I was not the victim of an illusion. Xo. it was still there. Now- 
it is always there. The head and upper part of the body were inclined 
slightly forward, the legs perfectly formed. At ten every forenoon, 
punctual to the hour, this phantom, emerging from the rock, stands, 
fixed and motionless, as a statue, in its niche. At every turn of the 
sun, this shade silently interrogates the feverish activity that has re- 
placed the silence of ages. One dav or another I shall demand of my 
phantom what it has witnessed. 

The road we followed soon turned sharplv away from the main street 



iV o R rii C O X WA V. 43 

of the village, to the left, and in a few rods more plung-ed into the Saco, 
leaving us standing on the bank, looking askance at a wide expanse of 
water, choked with bowlders, around which the swift current whirled and 
foamed with i-age. We decided it too shallow to swim, but doubted if 
it was not too deep to ford. We had reached our Rubicon. 

" We must wade," said the colonel, with decision. 

" Precisely my idea," assented George, beginning to unlace his shoes. 

I put my hand in the river. Ugh ! it was as cold as ice. 

Having assured ourselves no one saw us, we divested ourselves of 
shoes, stockings, pantaloons, and drawers. We put our stockings in our 
pockets, disposed our clothing in a roll over the shoulder, as soldiers do 
on the march, tied our shoes together, and hung them around our necks. 
Then, placing our hands upon each others' shoulders, as I have seen 
gymnasts do in a circus, we entered the river, like candidates for bap- 
tism, feeling our way, and catching our breath. 

" Sans-cu/o//i's," suggested the colonel, who knew a little French. 

" Kit-kats," added George, who knows something of art, as the water 
rose steadily above our knees. 

The treacherous bowlders tripped us up at every step, so that one or 
the other was constantly floundering, like a stranded porpoise in a frog- 
pond. But, thanks to our device, we reached the middle of the ri\er 
without anything worse than a few bruises. Here we were fairly stop- 
ped. The water was waist-deep, and the current every moment threat- 
ened to lift us from our feet. How foolish we looked ! 

Advance or retreat .'' That was the question. One pointed up 
stream, another down ; while, to aggravate the situation, rain began to 
patter around us. In two minutes the river was steaming. George, 
who is a great infant, suggested putting our hands in our pockets, to 
keep them warm, and our clothes in the river, to keep them dry. 

" By Jove !" ejaculated the colonel, " the river is smoking." 

" Let us join the river," said George, producing his cigar-case. 

Putting our heads together over the colonel's last match, thus form- 
ing an antique tripod of our bodies, we succeeded in getting a light ; 
and for the first time, I venture to afifirm, since its waters gushed from 
the mountains, incense ascended from the bosom of the Saco. 

" I'm freezing !" stuttered George. 

I was pushing forward, to cut the dilemma short, when the colonel 

interposed with, 

8* 



44 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

" Stop ; I want to tell you a story." 

" A story ? here — in the middle of the river ?" we shouted. 

" In the middle of the river ; here — a story !" he echoed. 

" I would like to sit down while I listen," observed George. 

Evidently the coldness of the water had forced the blood into our 
friend's head. He was ill, but obstinate. We therefore resigned our- 
selves to hear him. 

" This river and this situation remind me of the Potawatamies," he 
began. 

" Potawatamies !" we echoed, with chattering teeth. " Go on ; go on." 

"When I was on the Plains," continued the colonel, "I passed some 
time among those Indians. During my stay, the chief invited me to 
accompany him on a buffalo-hunt. I accepted on the spot; for of all 
things a buffalo-hunt was the one I was most desirous of seeing. We 
set out at daybreak the next morning. After a few hours' march, we 
came to a stream between deep banks, and flowing with a rapid current, 
like this one — " 

" Go on ; go on !" we shiveringly articulated. 

" At a gesture from the chief, a young 'squaw dismounted from her 
pony, advanced to the edge of the stream, and began, timidly, to wade 
it. When she hesitated, as she did two or three times, the chief said 
something which encouraged her to proceed. All at once she stopped, 
threw up her arms, and screamed something in the Indian dialect; at 
which all the braves burst into a loud laugh, the squaws joining in. 

" ' W'hat does she say .''' I asked of the chief. 

" ' Up to the middle,' he replied, pushing his pony into the stream." 

The stream grew shallower, so that we soon emerged from the water 
upon the opposite bank. Here we poured the water from our shoes, 
and resumed our wet clothing. Everything was cooled, except our 
ardor. 

As we approached nearer, the ledges were full of grim recesses, rude 
rock -niches, and traversed by perpendicular cracks from brow to base. 
" Take care !" I shouted ; " there is a huge piece of the cliff just ready 
to fall." 

In some places the rock is sheer and smooth, in others it is broken 
regularly down, for half its whole height, to where it is joined by rude 
buttresses of massive granite. The lithe maples climb up the steepest 
ravines, but cannot pass the waste of sheer rock stretching between them 



NOR TH C O N IV A V. 



45 



and the firs, which look down over the brink of tlic precipice. Rusted 
purple is the prevailing color, blotched here and there with white, like 
the drip oozing from limestone. We soon emerged on the shore of 
Echo Lake. 

Hovering under the great precipices, which lie heavily shadowed on 
its glossy surface, are gathered the waters flowing from the airy heights 
above — the little rills, the rivulets, the cascades. The tremendous shadow 
the cliff flings down seems lying deep in the bosom of the lake, as if 
perpetually imprinted there. Slender birches, brilliant foliage, were dain- 
tily etched upon the surface, like arabesques on polished steel. The 
water is perfectly transparent, and without a ripple. Indeed, the breezes 
playing around the summit, or humming in the tree-tops, seem forbidden 





Lcllu LAKL, .NuRTH 



to enter this haunt of Dryads. The lake laps the yellow strand with a 
light, fluttering movement. The place seems dedicated to silence itself. 

To destroy this illusion, a man came out of a booth and touched off 
a small cannon. The effect was like knocking at half a dozen doors at 
once. And the silence which followed seemed all the deeper. Then 
the aged rock was pelted with questions, and made to jeer, laugh, men- 
ace, or curse by turns, or all at once. How grandly it bore all these 
petty insolences ! How presumptuous in us thus to cover its hoary 
front with obloquy! We could never get the last word. We did not 
even come off in triumph. How ironically the mountain repeated, 
" Who are you ?" and " What am I !" With what energy it at last vocif- 
erated, " Go to the devil !" To the Devil's Den we accordingly go. 

Following a woodland path skirting the base of the cliffs, we were 



46 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

ver}' soon before the entrance of the Dexil's Den, formed by a huge 
piece of the cHff falling upon other detached fragments in such a way 
as to leave an aperture large enough to admit fifty persons at once. A 
ponderous mass divides the cavern into two chambers, one of which is 
light, airy, and spacious, the other dark, gloomy, and contracted — a mere 
hole. This might well have been the lair of the bears and panthers 
formerly roaming, unmolested, these woods. 

The Cathedral is a recess higher up in the same cliff, hollowed out 
bv the cleaving off of the lower rock, leaving the upper portion of the 
precipice overhanging. The top of the roof is as high as a tall tree. 
Some maples that have grown here since the outer portion of the rock 
fell, assist, with their straight -limbed, columnar trunks, the resemblance 
to a chancel. A little way off this cavity has really the appearance of a 
gigantic shell, like those fossils seen imbedded in subterranean rocks. 
We did not miss here the delicious glimpses of Kearsarge, and of the 
mountains across the valley which, now that the sun came out, were all 
in brilliant light, while the cool afternoon shadows already wrapped the 
woods about us in twilight gloom. 

Still farther on we came upon a fine cascade falling down a long, 
irregular staircase of broken rock. One of these steps extends, a solid 
mass of granite, more than a hundred feet across the bed of the stream, 
and is twenty feet high. Unless the brook is full, it is not a single sheet 
we see, but twenty, fifty crystal streams gushing or spirting from the 
grooves they have channelled in the hard granite, and falling into basins 
they have hollowed out. It is these curious, circular stone cavities, 
out of which the freshest and cleanest water constantly pours, that give 
to the cascade the name of Diana's Baths. The water never dashes it- 
self noisily down, but slips, like oil, from the rocks, with a pleasant, 
purling sound no single word of our language will correctly describe. 
From here we returned to the village in the same way that we came.^ 

The wild and bristling little mountain range on the east side of 
North Conway embodies a good deal of picturesque character. It is 
there our way lies to Artists' Falls, which are on a brook issuing from 
these Green Hills. I found the walk, following its windings, more re- 
munerative than the falls themselves. The brook, flowing first over 
a smooth granite ledge, collects in a little pool below, out of which the 

' The Saco has since been bridged, and is traversed with all case. 



N O R TH C O N \VA Y. 



47 



pure water filters through bowlders and among glittering pebbles to a 
gorge between two rocks, down which it plunges. The beauty of this 
cascade consists in its waywardness. Now it is a thin sheet, flowing 
demurely along ; now it breaks out in uncontrollable antics ; and at 
length, as if tired of this sport, darts like an arrow down the rocky 
fissure, and is a mountain brook again. 

The ascent of Kearsarge and of the Moats fittingly crowns the series 
of excursions which are the most attractive feature of out-of-door life at 
North Conway. The northern peak of Moat is the one most frequently 
climbed, but the southern affords almost equally admirable views of the 
Saco, the Ellis, and the Swift River valleys, with the mountain chains 
enclosing them. The prospect here is, however, much the same as that 
obtained from Chocorua, which is seen rising beyond the .Swift River 
valley. To that description I must, therefore, refer the reader, who is 
already acquainted with its principal features. 

The high ridge is an arid and desolate heap of summits stripped 
bare of vegetation by fire. When this fire occurred, twenty odd years 
ago, it drove the bears and rattlesnakes from their forest homes in great 
numbers, so that they fell an easy prey to their destroyers. A depres- 
sion near its centre divides the ridge in two, constituting, in effect, two 
mountains. We crossed the range in its whole length, and, after newly 
refreshing ourselves with the admirable views had from its greater ele- 
vation, descended the northern peak to Diana's Baths. Probably the 
most striking view of the Moats is from Conway. Here the summits, 
thrown into a mass of lawless curves and blunted, prong- like protuber- 
ances, rear a blackened and weird -looking cluster on high. But for a 
wide region they divide with Chocorua the honors of the landscape, con- 
stituting, at Jackson especially, a large and imposing background, mas- 
sively based and buttressed, and cutting through space with their 
trenchant edge. 

In the winter of 1876, finding myself at North Conway, I determined 
to make the attempt to ascend Mount Kearsarge, notwithstanding two- 
thirds of the mountain were shrouded in snow, and the bare shaft con- 
stituting the spire sheathed in glittering ice. The mountain had defin- 
itively gone into winter-quarters. 

I was up early enough to surprise, all at once, the unwonted and 
curiously -blended effect of moonlight, starlight, and the twilight of 
dawn. The new moon, with the old in her arms, balanced her shining 



48 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 





--'if} I ^ 



l<^^iv 



KKARSARGE IN WIXTKK. 



crescent on tlie curved peak of Moat Mountain. All these high, sur- 
rounclino- peaks, carved in marble and flooded with effulgence, impressed 
the spirit with that mingled awe and devotion felt among the antique 
monuments of some vast cemetery. The sight thrilled and solemnized 
by its chaste magnificence. Glittering stars, snow-draped summits, black 
mountains casting sable draperies upon the dead white of the valley, 
constituted a scene of sepulchral pomp into which the supernatural en- 
tered unchallenged. One by one the stars went out. The moon grew 
pale. A clear emerald, overspreading the east, was reflected from lofty 
peak and tapering spire. 



NORTH CONWAY. 49 

Day broke bright, clear, and crisp. There, again, was the same 
matchless array of high and noble summits, sitting on thrones of alabas- 
ter whiteness. While the moon still lingered in the west, the broad red 
disk of the sun rose over the wooded ridges in the east. So sun and 
moon, monarch and queen, saluted each other. One gave the watch- 
word, and descended behind the moated mountain ; the other ascended 
the vacant throne. Thus night and day met and exchanged majestic 
salutation in the courts of the morning. 

The mercury stood at three degrees below zero in the village, when 
I set out on foot for the mountain. A light fall of snow had renewed 
the Christmas decorations. The trees had newly-leaved and blossomed. 
Beautiful it was to see the dark old pines thick-flaked with new snow, 
and the same feathery substance lodged on every twig and branchlet, 
tangle of vines, or tuft of tawny yellow grass. Fir-trees looked like 
gigantic azaleas ; thickets like coral groves. Nothing too slender or 
too fragile for the white flight to alight upon. Talk of decorative art ! 
Even the telegraph-wires hung in broad, graceful festoons of white, and 
the poor washer-woman's clothes-line was changed into the same imma- 
terial thing of beauty. 

The ascent proved more toilsome than I had anticipated, as my feet 
broke through the frozen crust at every step. But if the climb had been 
difficult when in the woods, it certainly presented few attractions when 
I emerged from them half a mile below the summit. I found the sur- 
face of the bare ledges, which now continue to the top of the mountain, 
sheeted in ice, smooth and slippery as glass. 

Many a time have I laughed heartily at the feverish indecision of a 
dog when he runs along the margin of a pond into which he has been 
urged to plunge. He turns this way and that, whines, barks, crouches 
for the leap, laps the water, but hesitates. Imagine, now, the same ani- 
mal chasing some object upon slippery ice, his feet spread widely apart ; 
his frantic efforts to stop; the circles described in the air by his tail. 
Well, I experienced the same perplexity, and made nearly the same ridic- 
ulous evolutions. 

After several futile attempts to advance over it, and as often finding 
myself sliding backward with entire loss of control of my own move- 
ments, I tried the rusf^ed ravine, traversing the summit, with some suc- 
cess, steadying my steps on the iced bowlders by grasping the bushes 
which grew there among clefts of the rock. But this way, besides being 

9 



50 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



extremely fatiguing, was decidedly the more dangerous of the two ; and 
I was glad, after a brief trial, to abandon it for the ice, in which, here 
and there, detached stones, solidly embedded, furnished points of sup- 
port, if they could be reached. By pursuing a zigzag course from stone 
to stone, sometimes — like a pious Moslem approaching the tomb of the 
Prophet — upon my hands and knees, and shedding tears from the force 
of the wind, I succeeded in getting over the ledges after an hour's ob- 
stinate battle to maintain an upright position, and after several mishaps 
had taught me a degree of caution closely approaching timidity. By far 
the most treacherous ground was where fresh snow, covering the smooth 
ice, spread its pitfalls in the path, causing me several times to meas- 
ure my length ; but at last these obstacles were one by one surmounted ; 
I groped my way, foot by foot, u]d the sharp rise of the pinnacle, find- 
ing myself at the front door of the house which is so conspicuous an 
object from the valley. 

Never was air more i^ure, more crisp, or more transparent. Be- 
sides, what air can rival that of winter.'' I felt myself rather floating 
than walking. Certainly there is a lightness, a clearness, and a depth 
that belongs to no other season. At no other season do we behold our 
native skies so blue, so firm, or so brilliant as when the limpid ether, 
winnowed by the fierce north wind to absolute purity, presents objects 
with such marvellous clearness, precision, and fidelity, that we hardly 
persuade ourselves they are forty, fifty, or a hundred miles distant. To 
realize this rare condition was all the object of the ascent — an object 
attained in a measure far beyond any anticipations I had formed. 

As may easily be imagined, the immediate effect was bewildering in 
the extreme. In the first place, the direct rays of the noonday sun cov- 
ered the mountain -top with dazzling brilliancy. The eye fairly ached 
with looking at it. In the second, the intensity of the blue was such as 
to give the idea that the grand expanse of sky was hard frozen. Noth- 
ing more coldly brilliant than this immense azure dome can be con- 
ceived. There was not the faintest trace of a cloud anywhere ; nothing 
but this splendid void. Under this high-vaulted dome, imagine now a 
vast expanse of white etched with brown — a landscape in sepia. Such 
was the general effect. 

But the inexpressible delight of having all this admirable scene to 
one's self! Taine asks, " Can anything be sweeter than the certainty of 
being alone? In any widely known spot, yon are in constant dread of 



.V ORTH CO N WA Y. 51 

an incursion of tourists ; the hallooing of guides, the loud-voiced admi- 
ration, the bustle, whether of unfastening horses, or of unpacking pro- 
visions, or of airing opinions, all disturb the budding sensation ; civiliza- 
tion recovers its hold upon you. But here, what security and what 
silence! nothing that recalls man; the landscape is just what it has been 
these six thousand years." 

The view from this mountain is justly admired. Stripped of life and 
color, I found it sad, pathetic even. Dead white and steel blue rudely 
repulsed the sensitive eye. The north wind, cold and cutting, drove me 
to take shelter under glaring rocks. The cracking of ice first on one 
side, then on the other, diverted the attention from the landscape, as if 
the mountain was continually snapping its fingers in disdain. I had 
constantly the feeling that some one or some thing was at my elbow. 
W'hat childishness! But where now was the lavish summer, the bar- 
baric splendors of autumn — its arabesques of foliage, its velvet shadows, 
its dappled skies, its glow, mantling like that of health and beauty.'' All- 
pervading gloom and defoliation were rendered ten times more melan- 
choly by the splendid glare. Winter fHung her white shroud over the 
land to hide the repulsiveness of death. 

I looked across the valley where Moat Mountain reared its magnifi- 
cent dark wave. Passing to the north side, the eye wandered ox^er the 
wooded summits to the silvery heap of Washington, to which frozen, 
rose-colored mists were clinging. A great ice-cataract rolled down over 
the edge of Tuckerman s Ravine, its wave of glittering emerald. It 
shone with enchanting brilliancy, cheating the imagination with the idea 
that it moved ; that the thin, spectral vapor rose from the depths of the 
ice-cold gorge below. There gaped, wide open, the enormous hole of 
Carter Notch; there the pale-blue Saco wound in and out of the hills, 
with hamlets and villages strung along its serpentine course ; and, as the 
river grows, villages increase to towns, towns to cities. There was the 
sea sparkling like a plain of quicksilver, with ponds and lakes innumer- 
able between. There, in the south-west, as far as the eye could reach, 
was Monadnock demanding recognition ; and in the west, Moosehillock, 
Lafayette, Carrigain peaks, lifted with calm superiority above the chaos 
of mountains, like higher waves of a frozen sea. Finally, there were the 
snow-capped summits of the great range seen throughout their whole 
extent, sunning their satin sides in indolent enjoyment. 

This view has no peer in these mountains. Indeed, the mountain 

9* 



52 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



seems expressly placed to command in one comprehensive sweep of the 
eye the most impressive features of any mountain landscape. Being a 
peak of the second order — that is to say, one not dominating all the 
chains — while it does not unfold the topography of the region in its 
whole extent, it is sufficiently elevated to permit the spectator to enjoy 
that increasing grandeur with which the distant ranges rise, tier upon 
tier, to their great central spires, without lessening materially their lofti- 
ness, or the peculiar and varied expression of their contours. The peak 
of Kearsarge peeps down over one shoulder into New Hampshire, over 
the other into Maine. It looks straight up through the open door of 
the Carter Notch, and boldly stares Washington in the face. It sees 
the sun rise from the ocean, and set behind Mount Lafayette. It 
patronizes Moat, measures itself proudly with Chocorua, and maintains a 
distant acquaintance with Monadnock. It is a handsome mountain, and, 
as such, is a general favorite with the ladies and the artists. Like a 
careful shepherd, it every morning scans the valleys to see that none of 
its flock of villages has wandered. For these villagers it is a sun-dial, 
a weather-vane, an almanac ; for the wayfarer, a sure guide ; and for the 
poet, a mountain with a soul. 

The cold was intense, the wind piercing. On its north side the 
house was deeply incrusted with ice-spars — windows and all. I feel that 
only scant justice can be done to their wondrous beauty. All the 
scrubby bushes growing out of interstices of the crumbling summit — wee 
twig and slender filament — were stemmed with ice; while the rocks 
bristled with countless frost feathers. With my pitch -cakes and a few 
twigs I lighted a fire, which might be seen from the half-dozen villages 
clustered about the foot of the mountain, and pleased myself with imag- 
ining the astonishment with which a smoke curling upward from this 
peak would be greeted for fifty miles around. I then prepared to de- 
scend — I say prepared to descend, for the thing at once so easy to say 
and so difficult of performance suddenly revived the recollection of the 
hazardous scramble up the ledges, and made it seem child's play by com- 
parison. For a brief hour I had forgotten all this. However, go down 
I must. But how.? The first step on the ice threatened a descent more 
rapid than flesh and blood could calmly contemplate. I had no hatchet 
to cut steps in the ice ; no rope to attach to the rocks, and thus lower 
myself, as is practised in crossing the glaciers of the Alps ; and there was 
no foothold. For a moment I seriously thought of forcing an entrance 



NORTH CONWAY. 53 

into the house, and, making a signal of distress, resign myself to the 
possibility of help from below. But while sitting on a rock looking 
blankly at the glassy declivity stretching down from the summit, a 
brio-ht idea came to my aid. I remembered having read in Bourrienne's 
"Memoirs" that Bonaparte — the great Bonaparte — was forced to slide 
down the summit of the Great St. Bernard seated, while making his 




SLIDING DOWN KEARSARGE. 

famous passage of the Alps. Yes, the great Corsican really advanced to 
the conquest of Italy in this undignified posture. But never did great 
example find more unworthy imitator. Seating myself, as the Little Cor- 
poral had done, using my staff as a rudder, and steering for protruding 
stones in order to check the force of the descent from time to time, I 
slid down with a celerity the yery remembrance of which makes my 



54 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOi'XTAIXS. 



head swim, arriving safe, but breathless and much astonished, at the 
first irregular patch of snow. The pleasure of standing erect on some- 
thing the feet could grasp was one not to be translated into words. 

Upon reaching the hotel. I procured another pair of pantaloons of 
my host, and some court-plaster from the village apothecary. If any of 
my readers think my dignity compromised, I beg him to remember the 
example of the great Napoleon, and his famous expedient for circum- 
venting the Great St. Bernard. 



FK O M K E A R S A R G E T O CAR R IGAl N. 5 5 



VI. X, 

FROM REARS ARC E TO CARRIGAIN. 

Ra/figh.—" Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall." 

Oiwen Elhabetli.—" If thy heart fail thee, climb thou not at all." 

AFTER the storm, we had a fine lunar bow. The corona in the 
centre was a clear silver, the outer circle composed of pale green 
and oran<^e fires. Over the moon's disk clouds swept a continuous 
stormy flight. The great planet resembled a splendid decoration hung 
high in the heavens. 

Having now progressed to terms of easy familiarity with the village, 
it was decided to pay our respects to the Intervale, which unites it with 
the neighboring town of Bartlett. 

The road up the valley first skirts a wood, and through this wood 
are delicious glimpses of Mount Adams. During the heat of the day or 
cool of the evening this extensive and beautiful forest has always been a 
favorite haunt. Tall, athletic pines, that bend in the breeze like whale- 
bone, lift their immense clusters of impenetrable foliage on high. The 
sighs of lovers are softly echoed in their green tops ; voices and laughter 
issue from it. We, too, will swing our hammock here, and breathe the 
healing fragrance that is so grateful. 

In a little enclosure of rough stone, on the Bigelow place, lie the 
remains of the ill-fated WiUey family, who were destroyed by the memo- 
rable slide of 1826. The inscription closes with this not too lucid figure: 

•• We gaze around, we read their monument ; 
We sigh, and when we sigh we sink." 

Where the high terrace, making one grand sweep to the right, again 
unveils the same superb view of the great summits, now wholly unob- 
structed by houses or groves, we halt before that picture, unrivalled in 
these mountains, not surpassed, perhaps, upon earth, and which we never 



56 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOCWTA /.\S. 



%1? 



'^f^f^ 







^:^ 4-^i 



^r 



^J/^S 




CONWAY MEADOWS. 




tiie of ga/mg upon. Its most salient 
features have already been described ; 
but here in their very midst, from their 
very heart, nature seems to have snatched 
a o-arden-spot from the haggard mountains arrested in their ad\ance by 
the command, " Thus far, and no farther!" The elms, all grace, all refine- 
ment of form, bend before the fierce blasts of winter, but stir not. The 
frozen east wind flies shrieking through, as if to tear them limb from 
limb. The ground is littered with their branches. They bow meekly 
before its rage, but stir not. Really, they seem so many sentinels jeal- 
ously guarding that repose of which the vale is so eloquently the expres- 
sion. The vale regards the stormy summits around with the unconcern 
of perfect security. It is rest to look at it. 

Again we scan the great peaks which in clear days come boldly 



FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN. 57 

down and stand at our very doors, but on hazy ones remove to a vast 
distance, keeping vaguely aloof day in and day out. Sometimes they 
are in the sulks, sometimes bold and forward. By turns they are gra- 
ciously condescending, or tantalizingly incomprehensible. One time 
they muffle themselves in clouds from head to foot, so we cannot detect 
a suggestive line or a contour ; another, throwing off all disguise, they 
expose their most secret beauties to the free gaze of the multitude. 
This is to set the beholder's blood on fire with the passion to climb as 
high as those gray shafts of everlasting rock that so proudly survey 
the creeping leagues beneath them. 

Nowhere is the unapproachable grandeur of Mount Washington 
more fully manifested than here. This large and impressive view is at 
once suggestive of that glorious pre-eminence always associated with 
high mountains. There are mountains, respectable ones too, in the mid- 
dle distance ; but over these the great peak lords it with undisputed 
sway. The bold and firm, though gradual, lines of ascent culminating 
at the apex, extend over leagues of sky. After a clear sunset, Mount 
Washington takes the same dull lead-color of the clouds hovering like 
enormous night-birds over its head. 

North Conway permits, to the tourist, a choice of two very agreeable 
excursions, either of which may be made in a day, although they could 
profitably occupy a week. One is to follow the course of the Saco, 
through the great Notch, to Fabyans, where you are on the westward 
side of the great range, and where you take the rail to the summit of 
Mount Washington. The other excursion is to diverge from the Saco 
Valley three or four miles from North Conway, ascending the valley of 
Ellis River — one of the large affluents of the Saco — through the Pink- 
ham Notch to the Glen House, where you are exactly under the eastern 
foot of Mount Washington, and may ascend it, by the carriage-road, in 
a coach -and -four. We had already chosen the first route, and as soon 
as the roads were a little settled we began our march. 

The storm was over. The keen north wind drove the mists in utter 

rout before it. Peak after peak started out of the clouds, glowered on 

us a moment, and then muffled his enormous head in fleecy vapor. The 

clouds seemed thronged with monstrous apparitions, struggling fiercely 

with the gale, which in pure wantonness tore aside the magic drapery 

that rendered them invisible, scattering its tattered rags far and wide 

over the valley. 

10 



qs 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



Now the sun entered upon tlie work begun by the wind. Quicker 
than thought, a ray of liquid flame transfixed tlie vapors, flashed upon 
the vale, and, flying from summit to summit, kindled them with new- 
born splendor. One would have said a flaming javelin, hurled from 
high heaven, had just cleft its dazzling way to earth. The mists slunk 
away and hid themselves. The valley was inundated with golden light. 
Even the dark faces of the cliffs brightened and beamed upon the vale, 




BARTLETT nOWLDER. 



wliLic the bic^n/cd foliage flut. 
teicd and the ii\ei leaped for 
jf)\ In a little time nothing 
was left but scattered clouds 
winging their way toward the low- 
lands. 
Near Glen Station is one of those curiosities — a transported bowlder 
— which was undoubtedly left while on its travels through the moun- 
tains, poised upon four smaller ones, in the position seen in the en- 
graving. 

Three miles below the village of Bartlett we stopped before a farm- 
house, with the gable-end toward the road, to inquire the distance to the 
next tavern, where we meant to pass the night. A gruff voice from the 
inside growled something by way of reply; but as its owner, whoever 
he might be. did not take the trouble to open his door, the answer was 
unintellicrible. 



FROM REARS ARGE TO CARRIGAIN. 



59 



" The churl !'" muttered the colonel. " I have a great mind to teach 
him to open when a gentleman knocks." 

" And I advise you not to try it," said the voice from the inside. 

The one thing a Kentuckian never shrinks from is a challenge. He 
only said, "Wait a minute," while putting his broad shoulder against 
the door; but now George and I interfered. Neither of us had any 
desire to signalize our entry into the village by a brawl, and after some 
trouble we succeeded in pacifying our fire-eater with the promise to stop 
at this house on our way back. 

" I shall know it again," said the colonel, looking back, and nibbling 
his long mustache with suppressed wrath ; " something has been spilled 
on the threshold — something like blood." 

We laughed heartily. The blood, we concluded, was in the col- 
onel's eyes. 

Some time after nightfall we arrived in the village, having put thir- 
teen miles of road behind us without fatigue. Our host received us 
with a blazing fire — what fires they do have in the mountains, to be 
sure ! — a pitcher of cider, and the remark, " Don't be afraid of it, gen- 
tlemen." 

All three hastened to reassure him on this point. The colonel be- 
gan with a loud smack, and George finished the jug with a deep sigh. 

" Don't be afraid of it," repeated the landlord, returning presently 
with a fresh pitcher. " There are five barrels more like it in the cellar." 

" Landlord," quoth George, " let one of your boys take a mattress, 
two blankets, and a pillow to the cellar. I intend to pass the night 
there. " 

" I only wish your well was full of it," said the colonel, taking a sec- 
ond pull at the jug, and making a second explosion with his lips. 

"Gentlemen," said I, "we have surely entered a land of milk and 
honey." 

" You shall have as much of both as you desire," said our host, \ery 
affably. " Supper is ready, gentlemen." 

After supper a man came in for whom I felt, upon the instant, one 
of those secret antipathies which are natural to me. The man was an 
utter stranger. No matter: the repugnance seized me all the same. 

After a tour of the tap-room, and some words with our landlord in 
an undertone, the stranger went out with the look of a man who had 
asked for something- and had been refused. 



6o THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

" Where have I heard that man's voice ?" said the colonel, thought- 
fully. 

Our landlord is one of the most genial to be found among the moun- 
tains. While sitting over the fire during the evening, the conversation 
turned upon the primitive simplicity of manners remarked among moun- 
taineers in general ; and our host illustrated it with this incident : 

" You noticed, perhaps, a man who left here a few moments ago .'" 
he began. 

We replied affirmatively. It was my antipathy. 

" Well, that man killed a traveller a few years back." 

We instinctively recoiled. The air seemed tainted with the murder- 
er's presence. 

" Yes ; dead as a mutton," continued the landlord, punching the logs 
reflectively, and filling the chimney with sparks. " The man came to his 
house one dark and stormy night, and asked to be admitted. The man 
of the house flatly refused. The stranger pleaded hard, but the fellow 
ordered him away with threats. Finding entreaties useless, the traveller 
began to grow angry, and attempted to push open the door, which was 
only fastened by a button, as the custom is. The man of the house said 
nothing, but took his gun from a corner, and when the intruder crossed 
the threshold he put three slugs through him. The wounded man ex- 
pired on the threshold, covering it with his blood." 

" Murdered him, and for that } Come, come, you are joking !" ejacu- 
lated George, with a half smile of incredulity. 

" Blowed him right through, just as I tell you," reiterated the nar- 
rator, without heeding the doubt George's question implied. 

" That sounds a little like Old Kentuck," observed the colonel, coolly. 

" Yes ; but listen to the sequel, gentlemen," resumed the landlord. 
" The murderer took the dead body in his arms, finding, to his horror, 
that it was an acquaintance wath whom he had been drinking the day 
before ; he took up the body, as I was saying, laid it out upon a table, 
and then went quietly to bed. In the morning he very honestly exhib- 
ited the corpse to all who passed his door, and told his story as I tell it 
to you. I had it from his own lips." 

" That beats Kentucky," asseverated the colonel. For my own part, 
I believed the landlord was amusing himself at our expense. 

" I don't know about Kentucky," observed the landlord ; " I was never 
there in my life ; but I do know that, when the dead man was buried, 



FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN. 6l 

the man who killed him went to the funeral like any curious or indiffer- 
ent spectator." 

This was too much. George rose from his chair, and began to be 
interested in a placard on the wall. " And you say this happened near 
here .''" he slowly inquired ; " perhaps, now, you could show us the very 
house ?" he finished, dryly. 

" Nothing easier. It's only three miles back on the road you came. 
The blood-stain is plain, or was, on the threshold." 

We exchanged glances. This was the house where we halted to 
inquire our way. The colonel's eyes dilated, but he said nothing. 

" But was there no trial V I asked. 

" Trial } oh yes. After several clays had run by, somebody thought 
of that ; so one morning the slayer saddled his horse and rode over to 
the county-seat to inquire about it. He was tried at the next sessions, 
and acquitted. The judge charged justifiable homicide; that a man's 
house is his fort ; the jury did not leave their benches. By-the-bye, gen- 
tlemen, that is some of the man's cider you are drinking." 

I felt decided symptoms of revolt in my stomach ; George made a 
grimace, and the colonel threw his unfinished glass in the fire. During 
the remainder of the evening he rallied us a good deal on the subject of 
New England hospitality, but said no more about going back to chas- 
tise the man of the red house.' 

The sun rose clear over the right shoulder of Kearsarge. After 
breakfast the landlord took us out and introduced us to his neighbors, 
the mountains. While he was making the presentation in due form, I 
jotted down the following, which has, at least, the merit of conciseness : 

Upper Bartlctt : an ellipse of fertile land ; three Lombardy poplars ; 
a river murmuring unseen ; a wall of mountains, with Kearsarge look- 
ing up, and Carrigain looking down the intervale, //em : the cider is 
excellent. 

We had before us the range extending between Swift River and the 
Saco, over which I looked from the summit of Chocorua straight to 
Mount Washington. To the east this range is joined with the out- 



' The sequel to this strange but true story is in keeping with the rest of its horrible de- 
tails. Perpetually haunted by the ghost of his victim, the murderer became a prey to remorse. 
Life became insupportable. He felt that he was both shunned and abhorred. Gradually he 
fell into a decline, and within a few years from the time the deed was committed he died. 



62 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

works of Moat. Then come Table, Bear, Silver Spring (Bartlett Hay- 
stack), and Tremont, in the order named. Then comes the valley of 
Sawyer's River, with Carrigain rising between its walls ; then, crossing 
to the north side of the Saco, the most conspicuous object is the bold 
Hart's Ledge, between which and Sawyer's Rock, on the opposite bank, 
the river is crowded into a narrow channel. The mountain behind the 
hotel is Mount Langdon, with Crawford more distant. Observe closely 
the curious configuration of this peak. Whether we go up or down, it 
nods familiarly to us from every point of approach. 

But Kearsarge and Carrigain are the grand features here. One 
gives his adieu, the other his welcome. One is the perfection of sym- 
metry, of grace ; the other simply demands our homage. His snowy 
crown, dazzling white against the pure blue, was the badge of an incon- 
testable superiority. These two mountains are the presiding genii of 
this charming intervale. You look first at the massive lineaments of 
one, then at the flowing lines of the other, as at celebrated men, whose 
features you would strongly impress upon the memory. 

From the village street we saw the sun go down behind Mount Car- 
rigain, and touch with his glittering sceptre the crest of Hancock. We 
looked up the valley dominated by the giant of the Pemigewasset wil- 
derness with feelings of high respect for this illustrious hermit, who only 
deigns to show himself from this single point, and whose peak long 
yielded only to the most persevering and determined climbers. 

Two days were formerly required for the ascent of this mountain, but 
a long day will now suiSce, thanks to the path constructed under the 
direction of the Appalachian Club. The mountain is four thousand six 
hundred and twenty-five feet above the sea, and is wooded to its summit. 
The valley of Sawyer's River drains the deep basin between Carrigain 
and Hancock, entering the Saco near the railroad station called Liver- 
more. The lumbermen have now penetrated this valley to the foot of 
the mountain, with their rude logging roads, offering a way soon, it is 
hoped, to be made plainer for future climbers than it was our lot to 
find it. 

Thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the mountains, we now re- 
garded distances with disdain, and fatigue with indifference. We had 
learned to make our toilets in the stream, and our beds in the fragrant 
groves. Truly, the bronzed faces that peered at us as we bent over 
some solemn, pine-shaded pool were not those we had been accustomed 



FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN. 63 

to seeing at home ; but having solved the problem of man's true exist- 
ence, we only laughed at each other's tawny countenances while shoul- 
dering our packs and tightening our belts for the day's march. 

Leaving Bartlett at an early hour, we turned aside from the highway 
a little beyond the bridge which spans Sawyer's River, and were soon 
following a rough and stony cart -way ascending the banks of this 
stream, which thundered along its rocky bed, making the woods echo 
with its roar. The road grew rapidly worse, the river wilder, the forest 
gloomier, until, at the end of two miles, coming suddenly out into the 
sun, we entered a rude street of unpainted cabins, terminating at some 
saw -mills. This hamlet, which to the artistic eye so disadvantageously 
replaces the original forest, is the only settlement in the large township 
of Livermore. Its mission is to ravage and lay waste the adjacent 
mountains. Notwithstanding the occupation is legitimate, one instinc- 
tively rebels at the waste around him, where the splendid natural forest, 
literally hewed and hacked in pieces, exposes rudely all the deformities 
of the mountains. But this lost hamlet is the first in which a genuine 
emotion of any kind awaits the traveller. Ten to one it is like noth- 
ing he ever dreamed of; his surprise is, therefore, extreme. The men 
were rough, hardy-looking fellows ; the women appeared contented, but as 
if hard work had destroyed their good looks prematurely. Both an- 
nounced, by their looks and their manner, that the life they led was no 
child's play ; the men spoke only when addressed ; the women stole fur- 
tive glances at us ; the half-dressed children stopped their play to stare at 
the strangers. Here was neither spire nor bell. One cow furnished all 
the milk for the commonalty. The mills being shut, there was no sound 
except the river plashing over the rocks far down in the gorge below; 
and had I encountered such a place on the sea-coast or tlie frontier, I 
should at once have said I had stumbled upon the secret hold of outlaws 
and smugglers, into which signs, grips, and passwords were necessary to 
procure admission. To me, therefore, the hamlet of Livermore was a 
wholly new experience. 

From this hamlet to the foot of the mountain is a long and uninter- 
esting tramp of five miles through the woods. We found the walking 
good, and strode rapidly on, coming first to a wood-cutter's camp pitched 
on the banks of Carrigain Brook, and next to the clearing they had 
made at the mountain's foot. Here the actual work of the ascent began 
in earnest. 



64 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MO UNTAINS. 

Carrio-ain is solid, compact, massive. It is covered from head to foot 
with forest. No incident of the way diverts the attention for a single 
moment from the severe exertion required to overcome its steeply in- 
clined side ; no breathing levels, no restful outlooks, no gorges, no preci- 
pices, no cascades break the monotony of the escalade. We conquer, as 
Napoleon's grenadiers did, by our legs. It is the most inexorable of 
mountains, and the most exasperating. From base to summit you can- 
not obtain a cup of water to slake your thirst. 

Two hours of this brought us out upon the bare summit of the great 
northern spur, beyond which the true peak rose a few hundred feet 
hio-her. Carrigain, at once the desire and the bugbear of climbers, was 
beneath our feet. 

We have already examined, from the rocks of Chocorua, the situation 
of this peak. We then entitled it the Hub of the White Mountains. It 
reveals all the magnitude, unfolds the topography of the woody wilder- 
ness stretching between the Saco and the Pemigewasset valleys. As 
nearly as possible, it exhibits the same amazing profusion of unbroken 
forest, here and there darkly streaked by hidden watercourses, as when 
the daring foot of the first climber pressed the unviolated crest of the 
auo-ust peak of Washington. In all its length and breadth there is not 
one object that suggests, even remotely, the presence of man. We saw 
not even the smoke of a hunter's camp. All was just as created; an 
absolute, savage, unkempt wilderness. 

Heavens, what a bristling array of dark and shaggy mountains ! 
Now and then, where water gleamed out of their hideous depths, a great 
brilliant eye seemed watching us from afar. We knew that we had only 
to look up to see a dazzling circlet of lofty peaks drawn around the ho- 
rizon, chains set with glittering stones, clusters sparkling with antique 
crests; still we could not withdraw our eyes from the profound abysses 
sunk deep in the bowels of the land, typical of the uncovered bed of the 
primeval ocean, sad and terrible, from which that ocean seemed only to 
have just receded. 

But who shall describe all this solitary, this oppressive grandeur? 
and what language portray the awfulness of these untrodden mountains .? 
Now and then, high up their bleak summits, a patch of forest had been 
plucked up by the roots, or shaken from its hold in the throes of the 
mountain, laid bare a long and glittering scar, red as a half-closed wound. 
Such is the appearance of Mount Lowell, on the other side of the gap 



FROM KEARSARGE TO CARRIGAIN. 65 

dividing Carrigain from the Notch mountains. We saw where the dark 
slope of Mount Willey gives birth to the infant Merrimack. We saw 
the confluent waters of this stream, so light of foot, speeding through 
the gloomy defiles, as if fear had given them wings. We saw the huge 
mass of Mount Hancock force itself slowly upward out of the press. 
Unutterable lawlessness stamped the whole region as its own. 

That I have thus dwelt upon its most extraordinary feature, instead of 
examining the landscape in detail, must suffice for the intelligent reader. 
I have not the temerity to coolly put the dissecting-knife into its heart. 
To science the things which belong to science. Besides, to the man of 
feeling all this is but secondary. We are not here to make a chart. 

After a visit to the high summit, where some work was done in the 
interest of future climbers, we set out at four in the afternoon, on our 
return down the mountain. A second time we halted on the spur to 
glance upward at the heap of summits over which Mount Washington 
lifts a regular dome. The long line of peaks, ascending from Craw- 
ford's, seems approaching it by a succession of huge steps. It was after 
dark when we saw the lights of the village before us, and were again 
warmly welcomed by the rousing fire and smoking viands of mine host. 



66 THE HEART OF THE 1VHITE JfUCXTAIXS. 



VII. 
VALLEY OF THE SACO. 

With our faint heart the mountain strives : 
Its arms outstretched, the Druid wood 

Waits with its benedicte. — Sir l.aunfal. 

AT eight o'clock in the morning we resumed our march, with the in- 
tention of reaching Crawford's the same evening. The day was 
cold, raw, and windy, so we walked briskly — sharp air and cutting wind 
acting like whip and spur. 

I retain a vivid recollection of this morning. Autumn had passed 
her cool hand over the fevered earth. Soft as three -piled velvet, the 
green turf left no trace of our tread. The sky was of a dazzling blue, 
and frescoed with light clouds, transparent as gauze, pure as the snow 
glistening on the high summits. On both sides of us audacious moun- 
tains braced their feet in the valley; while others mounted over their 
brawnv shoulders, as if to scale the heavens. 

But what shall I sav of the grand harlequinade of nature which the 
vallev presented to our view.'' I cannot employ \'ictor Hugo's odd 
simile of a peacock's tail ; that is more of a witticism than a description. 
The death of the year seemed to prefigure the glorious and surprising 
changes of color in a dying dolphin — putting on unparalleled beautv' at 
the moment of dissolution, and so going out in a blaze of glory. 

From the meagre summits enfiladed by the north wind, and where 
a solitar}- pine or cedar intensified the desolation, to the upper forests, 
the mountains bristled with a scanty growth of dead or dying trees. 
Those scattered birches, high up the mountain side, looked like quills 
on a porcupine's back ; that group, glistening in the morning sun, like 
the pipes of an immense organ. From this line of death, which vegeta- 
tion crossed at its peril, the eye dropped down over a limitless forest of 
dark evergreen spotted with bright yellow. The effect of the sunlight 



VALLEY OF THE SACO. 67 

on this foliage was magical. Myriad flambeaux illuminated the deep 
gloom, doubling the intensity of the sun, emitting rays, glowing, resplen- 
dent. This splendid light, which the heavy masses of orange seemed to 
absorb, gave a velvety softness to the lower ridges and spurs, covering 
their hard, angular lines with a magnificent drapery. The lower forests, 
the valley, were one vast sea of color. Here the bewildering melange 
of green and gold, orange and crimson, purple and russet, produced the 
effect of an immense Turkish rug — the colons being soft and rich, rather 
than vivid or brilliant. This quality, the blending of a thousand tints, 
the dreamy grace, the sumptuous profusion, the inexpressible tenderness, 
intoxicated the senses. Earth seemed no longer earth. We had en- 
tered a garden of the gods. 

From time to time a scarlet maple flamed up in the midst of the 
forest, and its red foliage, scattered at our feet by tl^g wind, glowed like 
flakes of fire beaten from an anvil. A tangled maze of color changed 
the road into an avenue bordered with rare and variegated plants. Au- 
tumn's bright sceptre, the golden-rod, pointed the way. Blue and white 
daisies strewed the greensward. 

After passing Sawyer's River, the road turned abruptly to the north, 
skirting the base of the Nancy range. We were at the door of the 
second chamber in this remarkable gallery of nature. 

Before crossing the threshold it is expedient to allude to the incident 
which has given a name not only to the mountain, but to the torrent we 
see tearing its impetuous way down from the upper forests. The story 
of Nancy's Brook is as follows : 

In the latter part of the last century, a maiden, whose Christian name 
of Nancy is all that comes down to us, was living in the little hamlet of 
Jefferson. She lo\'ed, and was betrothed to a young man of the farm. 
The wedding-day was fixed, and the young couple were on the eve of 
setting out for Portsmouth, where their happiness was to be consum- 
mated at the altar. In the trustfulness of love, the young girl confided 
the small sum which constituted all her marriage -portion to her lover. 
This man repaid her simple faith with the basest treacherv. Seizing 
his opportunity, he left the hamlet without a word of explanation or of 
adieu. The deserted maiden was one of those natures which cannot 
quietly sit down under calamity. Urged on by the intensity of her feel- 
ings, she resolved to pursue her recreant lover. He could not resist her 
prayers, her entreaties, her tears ! She was young, vigorous, intrepid. 



68 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 



With her to decide and to act were the same thing. In vain the family 
attempted to dissuade her from her purpose. At nightfall she set out. 

A hundred years ago the route taken by this brave girl was not, as 
to-day. a thoroughfare which one may follow with his eyes shut. It was 
only an obscure path, little travelled by day, deserted by night. For 
thirty miles, from Colonel Whipple's, in Jefferson, to Bartlett, there was 
not a human habitation. The forests were filled with wild beasts. The 




"^-^Sjfc^ 





J^< 



NA-NCV IN THt a.NOW. 



rigor of the season — it was December — added its own perils. But noth- 
ing could daunt the heroic spirit of Xancv ; she had found man more 
cruel than all besides. 

The girl's hope was to overtake her lover before dawn at the place 
where she expected he would have camped for the night. She found 
the camp deserted, and the embers extinguished. Spurred on by hope 
or despair, she pushed on down the tremendous defile of the Notch, ford- 
ing the turbulent and frozen Saco, and toiling through deep snows and 
over rocks and fallen trees, until, feeling her strength fail, she sunk ex- 
hausted on the margin of the brook which seems perpetually bemoan- 
ing her sad fate. Here, cold and rigid as marble, under a canopy of 
evergreen which the snow tenderlv drooped above, they found her. She 



VALLEY OF THE SACO. 69 

was wrapped in her cloak, and in the same attitude of repose as when 
she fell asleep on her nuptial couch of snow-crusted moss. 

The story goes that the faithless lover became a hopeless maniac on 
learning the fate of his victim, dying in horrible paroxysms not long 
after. Tradition adds that for many years, on every anniversary of her 
death, the mountains resounded with ravings, shrieks, and agonized cries, 
which the superstitious attributed to the unhappy ghost of the maniac 
lover.' 

It was not quite noon when we entered the beautiful and romantic 
glen under the shadow of Mount Crawford. Upon our left, a little in 
advance, a solidly-built English country-house, with gables, stood on a 
terrace well above the valley. At our right, and below, was the old 
Mount Crawford tavern, one of the most ancient of mountain hostelries. 
Upon the opposite side of the vale rose the enormous mass of Mount 
Crawford ; and near where we stood, a humble mound, overgrown with 
bushes, enclosed the mortal remains of the hardy pioneer whose monu- 
ment is the mountain. 

We had an excusable curiosity to see a man who, in the prime of 
life, had forsaken the city, its pleasures, its opportunities, and had come 
to pass the rest of his life among these mountains ; one, too, whose enor- 
mous possessions procured for him the title of Lord of the Valley. We 
heard with astonishment that our day's journey, of which we had com- 
pleted the half only, was wholly over his tract — I ought to say his do- 
minions — that is, over thirteen miles of field, forest, and mountain. This 
being equal to a small principality, it seemed quite natural and proper 
to approach the proprietor with some degree of ceremony. 

A servant took our cards at the door, and returned with an invita- 
tion to enter. The apartment into which we were conducted was the 
most singular I have ever seen ; certainly it has no counterpart in this 
world, unless the famous hut of Robinson Crusoe has escaped the rav- 
ages of time. It was literally cran^-med with antique furniture, among 
which was a high-backed chair used in dentistry ; squat little bottles, con- 
taining chemicals ; and a bench, on which was a spirit-lamp ; a turning- 
lathe, a small portable furnace, and a variety of instruments or tools of 



' Dr. Jeremy Belknap relates that, on his journey through this region in 1784. he was be- 
sought by the superstitious villagers to lay the spirits which were still believed to haunt the 
fastnesses of the mountains. 



70 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

which we did not know the use. A few prints and oil-paintings adorned 
the walls. A cheerful fire burnt on the hearth. 

"Were we in the sixteenth century," said George, " I should say this 
was the laboratory of some famous alchemist." 

Further investigation was cut short by the entrance of our host, who 
was a venerable-looking man, turned of eighty, with a silver beard falling 
upon his breast, and a general expression of benignity. He stooped a 




AliEL CRAWFORD. 



little, but seemed hale and hearty, notwithstanding the weight of his 
fourscore years. 

Doctor Bemis received us graciously. For an hour he entertained 
us with the story of his life among the mountains, " to which," said he, 
" I credit the last forty-five years — for I at first came here in pursuit of 
health." After he had satisfied our curiosity concerning himself, which 
he did with perfect bo)ikoinit\ I asked him to describe Abel Crawford, 
the veteran guide of the White Hills. 

"Abel," said the doctor, "was six feet four; Erastus, the eldest son. 



VALLEY CF THE SACO. 71 

was six feet six, or taller than Washington ; and Ethan was still, taller, 
being nearly seven feet. In fact, not one of the sons was less than six 
feet ; so you may imagine what sort of family group it was when ' his 
boys,' as Abel loved to call them, were all at home. Ah, well !" con- 
tinued the doctor, with a sigh, " that kind of timber does not flourish in 
the mountains now. Why, the very sight of one of those giants inspired 
the timid with confidence. Ethan, called in his day the Giant of the 
Hills, was a man of iron frame and will. Fear and he were strangers. 
He would take up an exhausted traveller in his sinewy arms and carry 
him as you would a baby, until his strength or courage returned. The 
first bridle-path up the mountain was opened by him in — let me see — 
ah! I have it, it was in 182 1. Ethan, with the help of his father, also 
built the Notch House above.' 

"Abel was long-armed, lean, and sinewy. Doctor Dwight, whose 
' Travels in New England ' you have doubtless read, stopped with Craw- 
ford, on his way down the Notch, in 1797. His nearest neighbor then, 
on the north, was Captain Rosebrook, who lived on or near the site of 
the present Fabyan House. Crawford's life of hardship had made little 
impression on a constitution of iron. At seventy-five he rode the first 
horse that reached the summit of Mount Washington. At eighty he 
often walked to his son's (Thomas J. Crawford), at the entrance of the 
Notch, before breakfast. I recollect him perfectly at this time, and his 
appearance was peculiarly impressive. He was erect and vigorous as 
one of those pines on yonder mountain. His long white hair fell down 
upon his shoulders, and his fresh, ruddy face was always expressive of 
good-humor. 

"The destructive freshet of 1S26," continued the doctor, "swept 
everything before it, flooding the intervale, and threatening the old house 
down there with instant demolition. During that terrible night, when 
the Willey family perished, Mrs. Crawfoi'd was alone with her young 
children in the house. The water rose with such rapidity that she was 
driven to the upper story for safety. While here, the thud of floating 
trees, driven by the current against the house, awakened new terrors. 
At every concussion the house trembled. Wooden walls could not long 

' This house stood just within the entrance to the Notch, from the north, or Fabyan side. 
It was for some time kept by Thomas J., one of the famous Crawfords. Travellers who are 
a good deal puzzled by the frequent recurrence of the name " Crawford's " will recollect that 
the present hotel is no.v the only one in this valley bearing the name. 



72 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

Stand that terrible pounding. The heroic woman, alive to the danger, 
seized a stout pole, and. going to the nearest window, kept the side of 
the house exposed to the flood free from the mass of wreck -stuff col- 
lected against it. She held her post thus throughout the night, until 
the danger had passed. When the flood subsided. Crawford found sev- 
eral fine trout alive in his cellar." 

'■ When do the great freshets usually occur ?" I asked. 

"In the autumn," replied our host. " It is not the melting snows, 
but the sudden rainfalls that we fear." 

" Yes," resumed he, reflectively, " the Crawfords were a family of 
athletes. With them the race of guides became extinct. Soon after 
settling here, Abel went with his wife to Bartlett on some occasion, leav- 
ing their two boys in the care of a hired man. When they had gone, 
this man took what he could find of value and decamped. When Abel 
returned, which he did on the following day, he immediately set out in 
pursuit of the thief, overtook him thirty miles from here, in the Fran- 
conia forests, flogged him within an inch of his life, and let him go." 

" Sixty miles on foot, and alone, to recover a few stolen goods, and 
punish a thief !" cried the astonished colonel ; " that beats Daniel Boone." 

" Yes ; and what is more, the boys were brought up to face hunger, 
cold, fatigue, with Indian stoicism, and even to encounter bears, lynxes, 
and wolves with no other weapons than those provided by nature. 
There, now, was Ethan, for example," said the doctor, smiling at the rec- 
ollection. " One day he took it into his head to have a tame bear for 
the diversion of his guests. Well, he caught a young one, half grown, 
and remarkably vicious, in a trap. But how to get him home ! At 
length Ethan tied his fore and hind paws together so he couldn't 
scratch, and put a muzzle of withes over his nose so he couldn't bite. 
Then, shouldering his prize as he would a bag of meal, the guide started 
for home, in great glee at the success of his clever expedient. He had 
not gone far, however, before Bruin managed to get one paw wholly and 
his muzzle partly free, and began to scratch and struggle and snap at 
his captor savagely. Ethan wanted to get the bear home terribly ; but, 
after having his clothing nearly torn off his back, he grew angr}-, and 
threw the beast upon the ground with such force as to kill him in- 
stantly." 

" Report," said I, '" credits you with naming most of the mountains 
which overlook the intervale." 



VALLEY OF THE SACO. 73 

"Yes," replied the doctor, " Resolution, over there"— indicating the 
mountain allied to Crawford, and to the ridge which forms one of the 
buttresses of Mount Washington—" I named in recognition of the perse- 
verance of Mr. Davis, who became discouraged while making a path to 
Mount Washington in 1845." 

" Is the route practicable ?" I asked, 

" Practicable, yes ; but nearly obliterated, and seldom ascended. Have 
you seen Frankenstein ?" demanded the doctor, in his turn. 
We replied in the negative. 

" It will repay a visit. I named it for a young German artist who 
passed some time with me, and who was fascinated by its rugged pictu- 
resqueness. Here is some of his work," pointing to the paintings which, 
apparently, formed the foundation of the collection on the walls. 

Our host accompanied us to the door with a second injunction not 
to forget Frankenstein. 

"You have something there good for the eyes," I observed, indicat- 
ing the green carpet of the vale beneath us. 

°"True; but you should have seen it when the deer boldly came 
down the mountain and browsed quietly among the cattle. That was a 
pretty sight, and one of frequent occurrence when I first knew the place. 
At that "time," he continued, " the stage passed up every other day. 
Sometimes there were one or two, but seldom three passengers."^ 

Proceeding on our way, we now had a fine view of the Giant's Stairs, 
which we had already seen from Mount Carrigain, but less boldly out- 
lined than they appear from the valley, where they really look like two 
enormous steps cut on the very summit of the opposite ridge. No name 
could be more appropriate, though each of the degrees of this colossal 
staircase demands a giant not of our days; for they are respectively 
three hundred and fif'ty, and four hundred and fifty feet in height. It 
was over those steps that the Davis path ascended. 

A mile or a mile and a half above the Crawford Glen, we emerged 
from behind a projecting spur of the mountain which hid the upper val- 
ley, when, by a common impulse, we stopped, fairly stupefied with admi- 
ration and surprise. 

Thrust out before us, athwart the pass, a black and castellated pile of 
precipices shot upward to a dizzy height, and broke off abruptly against 
the sky. Its bulging sides and regular outlines resembled the clustered 
towers and frowning battlements of some antique fortress built to com- 

12 



74 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

mand the pass. Gashed, splintered, defaced, it seemed to have withstood 
for ages the artillery of heaven and the assaults of time. With what soli- 
tary grandeur it lifted its mailed front above the forest, and seemed even 
to regard the mountains with disdain! Silent, gloomy, impregnable, it 
wanted nothing to recall those dark abodes of the Thousand and One 
Nights, in which malignant genii are imprisoned for thousands of years. 

This was Frankenstein. We at once accord it a place as the most 
suggestive of cliffs. From the other side of the valley the resemblance 
to a mediaeval castle is still more striking. It has a black gorge for a 
moat, so deep that the head swims when crossing it ; and to-day, as we 
crept over the cat's-cradle of a bridge thrown across for the passage of 
the railway, and listened to the growling of the torrent far down beneath, 
the whole frail structure seemed trembling under us. 

But what a contrast ! what a singular freak of nature ! At the foot 
of this grisly precipice, clothing it with almost superhuman beauty, was 
a plantation of maples and birches, all resplendent in crimson and gold. 
Never have I seen such masses of color laid on such a background. 
Below all was light and splendor; above, all darkness and gloom. Here 
the eye fairly revelled in beauty, there it recoiled in terror. The cliff 
was like a naked and swarthy Ethiopian up to his knees in roses. 

We walked slowly, with our eyes fixed on these cliffs, until another 
turn of the road — we were now on the railway embankment — opened a 
vista deserving to be remembered as one of the marvels of this glorious 
picture-gallery. 

The perfection and magnificence of this truly regal picture, the gi- 
gantic scale on which it is presented, without the least blemish to mar its 
harmony or disturb the impression of one grand, unique whole, is a I'eve- 
lation to the least su.sceptible nature in the world. 

Frankenstein was now a little withdrawn, on our left. Upon the 
right, fluttering its golden foliage as if to attract our attention, a planta- 
tion of tall, satin-stemmed birches stretched for some distance along the 
railway. Between the long buttress of the cliff and this forest lay open 
the valley of Mount Washington River, which is driven deep into the 
heart of the great range. There, through this valley, cutting the sap- 
phire sky with their silver silhouette, were the giant mountains, sur- 
mounted by the splendid dome of W^ashington himself. 

Passing beyond, we had a fine retrospect of Crawford, with his curved 
horn; and upon the dizzy iron bridge thrown across the gorge beneath 



VALLEY OF TLLE SACO. 



75 





STORM ON MOUNT UTLLEV. 

Frankenstein, striking views are ob- 
tained of the mountains below. Tliey 
seemed loftier and grander, and more im- 
posing than ever. ' '^^ 
Turning our faces toward the north, we ''"■: 
now beheld the immense bulk and superb crest of Willey. 
On the other side of the valley was the long battlement of 
Mount Webster. We were at the entrance of the great Notch. 



76 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



VIII. 

THROUGH THE NOTCH. 

Around his waist are forests braced, 
The avalanche in his hand. — Byrox. 

THE valley, which had continually contracted since leaving Bartlett, 
now appeared fast shut between these two mountains ; but on turn- 
ing the tremendous support which Mount Willey flings down, we were 
in presence of the amazing defile cloven through the midst, and giving 
entrance to the heart of the White Hills. 

These gigantic mountains divided to the right and left, like the Red 
Sea before the Israelites. Through the immense trough, over which 
their crests hung suspended in mid-air, the highway creeps and the river 
steals away. Tlie road is only seen at intervals through the forest ; a 
low murmur, like the hum of bees, announces the river. 

I have no conception of the man who can approach this stupendous 
chasm without a sensation of fear. The idea of imminent annihilation is 
everywhere overwhelming. The mind refuses to reason, or rather to 
fix itself, except on a single point. What if the same power that com- 
manded these awful mountains to remove should hurl them back to 
ever-during fixedness 1 Should, do I say ? The gulf seemed contract- 
ing under our very eyes — the great mountains toppling to their fall. 
With an eagerness excited by high expectation, we had pressed forward; 
but now we hesitated. 

This emotion, which many of my readers have doubtless partaken, 
was our tribute to the dumb but eloquent expression of power too vast 
for our feeble intellects to measure. It was the triumph of matter over 
mind ; of the finite over the infinite. 

Below, it was all admiration and surprise ; here, all amazement and 
fear. The more the mountains exalted themselves, the more we were 



THROUGH THE XOTCH. 77 

abased. Trusting, nevertheless, in our insignificance, we moved on, look- 
ing with all our eyes, absorbed, silent, and almost worshipping. 

The wide split of the Notch, which we had now entered, had on one 
side Mount Willey, drawn up to his full height ; and on the other Mount 
Webster, striped with dull red on dingy yellow, like an old tiger's skin. 
Willey is the highest ; Webster the most remarkable. Willey has a con- 
ical spire; Webster a long, irregular battlement. Willey is a mountain; 
Webster a huge block of granite. 

For two miles the gorge winds between these mountains to where it 
is apparently sealed up by a sheer mass of purple precipices lodged full 
in its throat. This is Mount Willard. The vast chasm glowed with the 
gorgeous colors of the foliage, even when a passing cloud obscured the 
sun. These genei-al observations made, we cast our eyes down into the 
vale reposing at our feet. We had chosen for our point of view that to 
which Abel Crawford conducted Sir Charles Lyell in 1845. The scien- 
tist has made the avalanche bear witness to the glacier, precisely as one 
criminal is made to convict another under our laws. 

Five hundred feet below us was a little clearing, containing a hamlet 
of two or three houses. From this hamlet to the storm -crushed crags 
glistening on the summit of Mount Willey the track of an old avalanche 
was still distinguishable, though the birches and alders rooted among 
the debris threatened to obliterate it at no distant day. 

We descended by this still plain path to the houses at the foot of 
the mountain. One and the other are associated with the most tragic 
event connected with the history of the great Notch. 

We found two houses, a larger and smaller, fronting the road, neither 
of which merits a description ; although evidence that it was visited by 
multitudes of curious pilgrims abounded on the walls of the unoccupied 
building. 

Since quite early in the century, this house was kept as an inn ; and 
for a long time it was the only stopping-place between Abel Crawford's 
below and Captain Rosebrook's above — a distance of thirteen miles. Its 
situation, at the entrance of the great Notch, was advantageous to the 
public and to the landlord, but attended with a danger which seems not 
to have been sufhciently regarded, if indeed it caused successive in- 
mates particular concern. This fatal security had a lamentable sequel. 

In 1826 this house was occupied by Samuel Willey, his wife, five 
children, and two hired men. During the summer a drought of unusual 

I2i 



78 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 





MOUNl WILLAKD FROM WILLED BR< 



-^ SL\ciit) diiLcl the htieams, 

and parched the thin soil of the neigh- 

■^ - boring mountains. On the evening 
'-' of the 26th of June, the family heard 
a heavy, rumbling noise, apparently pro- 
ceeding from the mountain behind 
them. In terror and amazement they 
ran out of the house. They saw the 

(Ik mountain in motion. They saw an im- 



THROUGH THE NOTCH. 79 

mense mass of earth and rock detach itself and move toward the valley, 
at first slowly, then with gathered and irresistible momentum. Rocks, 
trees, earth, were swooping down upon them from the heights in three 
destroying streams. The spectators stood rooted to the spot. Before 
they could recover their presence of mind the avalanche was upon 
them. One torrent crossed the road only ten rods from the house ; an- 
other a little distance beyond ; while the third and largest portion took 
a different direction. With great labor a way was made over the mass 
of rubbish for the road. The avalanche had shivered the largest trees, 
and borne rocks weighing many tons almost to the door of the lonely 
habitation. 

This awful warning passed unheeded. On the 2Sth of August, at 
dusk, a storm burst upon the mountains, and raged with indescribable 
fury throughout the night. The rain fell in sheets. Innumerable tor- 
rents suddenly broke forth on all sides, deluging the narrow valley, and 
bearing with them forests that had covered the mountains for ages. 
The swollen and turbid Saco rose over its banks, flooding the Intervales, 
and spreading destruction in its course. 

Two days afterward a traveller succeeded in forcing his way through 
the Notch. He found the Willey House standing uninjured in the 
midst of woful desolation. A second avalanche, descended from Mount 
Willey during the storm, had buried the little vale beneath its ruins. 
The traveller, affrighted by the scene around him, pushed open the door. 
As he did so, a half-famished dog, sole inmate of the house, disputed his 
entrance with a mournful howl. He entered. The interior was silent 
and deserted. A candle burnt to the socket, the clothing of the inmates 
lying by their bedsides, testified to the haste with which this devoted 
family had fled. The death-like hush perv'ading the lonely cabin — these 
evidences of the horrible and untimely fate of the family — the appalling 
scene of wreck all around, froze the solitary intruder's blood. In terror 
he, too, fled from the doomed dwelling. 

On arriving at Bartlett, the traveller reported what he had seen. 
Assistance was despatched to the scene of disaster. The rescuers came 
too late to render aid to the living, but they found, and buried on the 
spot, the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Willey, and the two hired men. The 
remaining children were never found. 

It was easily conjectured that the terrified family, alive at last to the 
appalling danger that menaced them, and feeling the solid earth tremble 



8o THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

in the throes of the mountain, sought safet}' in flight. They only rushed 
to their doom. The discover)' of the bodies showed but too plainly the 
manner of their death. They had been instantly swallowed up by the 
avalanche, which, in the inexplicable order of things visible in great 
calamities, divided behind the house, leaving the frail structure un- 
harmed, while its inmates were hurried into eternity.' 

For some time after the disaster a curse seemed to rest upon the old 
Notch House. No one would occupy it. Travellers shunned it. It 
remained untenanted, though open to all who might be driven to seek 
its inhospitable shelter, until the deep impression of horror which the 
fate of the Willey family inspired had, in a measure, effaced itself. 

The effects of the cataclysm were everywhere. For twenty -one 
miles, almost its entire length, the turnpike was demolished. Twenty- 
one of the twenty -three bridges were swept away. In some places the 
meadows were buried to the depth of several feet beneath sand, earth, 
and rocks ; in others, heaps of great trees, which the torrent had torn up 
by the roots, barricaded the route. The mountains presented a ghastly 
spectacle. One single night sufficed to obliterate the work of centuries, 
to strip their summits bare of verdure, and to leave them with shreds of 
forest and patches of shrubber)- hanging to their stark and naked sides. 
Thus their whole aspect was altered to an extent hardly to be realized 
to-day, though remarked with mingled wonder and dread long after the 
period of the convulsion. 

From the house our eyes naturally wandered to the mountain, where 
quarr}'men were pecking at its side like yellow-hammers at a dead syca- 
more. All at once a tremendous explosion was heard, and a stream of 
loosened earth and bowlders came rattling down the mountain. So un- 
expected was the sound, so startling its multiplied echo, it seemed as if 
the mountain had uttered a roar of rage and pain, which was taken up 
and repeated by the other mountains until the uproar became deafening. 
When the reverberation died away in the distance, we again heard the. 
metallic click of the miners' hammers chipping away at the gaunt ribs of 
Mount Willey. 

How does it happen that this catastrophe is still able to awaken the 
liveliest interest for the fate of the Willey family.^ Why is it that the 



' A portion of the slide touching the house, even moved it a little from its foundations 
before being stopf>ed by the resistance it opposed to the progress of the debris. 



THROUGH THE NOTCH. 8 1 

of t - repeated tale seems ever new in the ears of sympathetic listeners? 
Our age is crowded witli horrors, to which this seems trifling indeed. 
May we not attribute it to the influence which the actual scene exerts 
on the imagination ? One must stand on the spot to comprehend ; must 
feel the mysterious terror to which all w^ho come within the influence of 
the gorge submit. Here the annihilation of a family is but the legiti- 
mate expression of that feeling. It seems altogether natural to the place. 
The ravine might well be the sepulchre of a million human beings, in- 
stead of the grave of a single obscure family. 

We reached the public-house, at the side of the Willey house, with 
appetites whetted by our long walk. The mercury had only risen to 
thirty-eight degrees by the thermometer nailed to the door-post. We 
went in. 

In general, the mountain publicans are not only very obliging, but 
equal to even the most unexpected demands. The colonel, who never 
brags, had boasted for the last half-hour what he was going to do at this 
repast. In point of fact, we were famishing. 

A man was standing with his back to the fire, his hands thrust un- 
derneath his coat-tails, and a pipe in his mouth. Either the pipe illu- 
minated his nose, or his nose the pipe He also had a nervous contrac- 
tion of the muscles of his face, causing an involuntary twitching of the 
eyebrows, and at the same time of his ears, up and down. This habit, 
taken in connection with the perfect immobility of the figure, made on 
us the impression of a statue winking. We therefore hesitated to ad- 
dress it — I mean ////;/ — until a moment's puzzled scrutiny satisfied us 
that it — I mean the strange object — was alive. He merely turned his 
head when we entered the room, wagged his ears playfully, winked furi- 
ously, and then resumed his first attitude. In all probability he was 
some stranger like ourselves. 

I accosted him. " Sir," said I, " can you tell us if it is possible to 
procure a dinner here.^" 

The man took the pipe from his mouth, shook out the ashes very 
deliberately, and, without looking at me, tranquilly observed, 

" You would like dinner, then T' 

" Would we like dinner .^ We breakfasted at Bartlett, and have 
passed six hours fasting." 

" And eleven miles. You see, a long way between meals," interjected 
George, with decision. 



82 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

" It's after the regular dinner," drawled the apathetic smoker, using 
his thumb for a stopper, and stooping for a brand with which to relight 
his pipe. 

" In that case we are willing to pay for any additional trouble," I 
hastened to say. 

The man seemed reflecting. We were hungry; that was incontesta- 
ble ; but we were also shivering, and he maintained his position astride 
the hearth-stone, like the fabled Colossus of old. 

" A cold day," said the colonel, threshing himself. 

" I did not notice it," returned the stranger, indifferently. 

"Only thirty-eight at the door," said George, stamping his feet with 
unnecessary vehemence. 

"Indeed!" observed our man, with more interest. 

" Yes," George asserted ; " and if the fireplace were only larger, or the 
screen smaller." 

The man hastily stepped aside, knocking over, as he did so, a blaz- 
ing brand, which he kicked viciously back into the fire. 

Having carried the outworks, we approached the citadel. " Perhaps, 
sir," I ventured, " vou can inform us where the landlord may be found.''" 

" You wanted dinner, I believe .-'" The tone in which this question 
was put gave me goose-flesh. I could not speak. George dropped into 
a chair. The colonel propped himself against the chimney-piece. I 
shrugged my shoulders, and nodded expressively to my companions, who 
returned two glances of eloquent dismay. Evidently nothing was to be 
got out of this fellow. 

" Dinner for one .■'" continued the eternal smoker. 

" For three !" I exclaimed, out of all patience. 

"For four; I shall eat double," added the colonel. 

" Six !" shouted George, seizing the dinner-bell on the mantel-piece. 

" Stop," said the man, betraying a little excitement; "don't ring that 
bell." 

" Why not ?" demanded George ; " we want to see the landlord ; and, 
by Jove," brandishing the bell aloft, " see him we will !" 

"He stands before you, gentlemen ; and if you will have a little pa- 
tience I will see what can be done." So saying, he put his pipe on the 
chimney-piece, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went out, 
muttering, as he did so, " The world was not made in a day." 

In three-quarters of an liour we sat down to a funereal repast, the 



THROUGH THE NOTCH. 83 

bare recollection of which makes me ill, but which was enlivened by the 
following conversation : 

" How manv inhabitants are in your tract ?" I asked of the man who 
waited on us. 

"Do you mean inhabitants?" 

'• Certainly, I mean inhabitants." 

" Well, that's not an easy one." 

" How so ?" 

" Because the same question not only puzzled the State Legislature, 
but made the attorney-general sick." 

We became attentive. 

" Explain that, if you please," said I. 

'• Why, just look at it : with only eight legal voters in the tract " (he 
called it track), " we cast five hundred ballots at the State election." 

" Five hundred ballots ! then your voters must have sprung from the 
ground or from the rocks." 

" Pretty nearly so." 

" Actual men ?" 

" Actual men." 

" You are jesting." 

I\Iy man looked at me as if I had offered him an affront. The sup- 
position was plainly inadmissible. He was completely innocent of the 
charge. 

"You hear those men pounding away up the hill?'' he demanded, 
jerking his thumb in the direction indicated. 

" Yes." 

" Well, those are the five hundred voters. On election morning they 
came to the polling-place with a ballot in one hand, and a pick, a sledge, 
or a drill in the other. Our supervisor is a very honest, blunt sort of 
man : he refused their ballots on the spot." 

" Well ?" 

"Well, one of them had a can of nitro-glycerine and a coil of wire. 
He deposited his can in a corner, hitched on the wire, and was going 
out with his comrades, when the supervisor, feeling nervous, said, 

" ' The polls are open, gentlemen.' " 

" Ingenious," remarked George. 

The man looked astounded. 

" He means dangerous." said I ; " but go on." 



84 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

" I will. When the votes were counted, at sundown, it was found 
that our precinct had elected two representatives to the General Court. 
But Avhen the successful candidates presented their certificates at Con- 
cord, some meddlesome city fellow questioned the validity of the election. 
The upshot of it was that the two nitro-glycerites came back with a flea 
in each ear." 

"And the five hundred were disfranchised," said George. 

" Why, as to that, half were French Canadians, half Irish, and the 
devil knows what the rest were ; I don't." 

" Never mind the rest. You see," said George, rising, " how, with the 
railway, the blessings of civilization penetrate into the dark corners of 
the earth." 

The colonel began his sacramental, " That beats — " when he was inter- 
rupted by a second explosion, which shook the building. We paid our 
reckoning, George saying, as he threw his money on the table, " A heavy 
charge." 

" No more than the regular price," said the landlord, stiffly. 

" I referred, my dear sir, to the explosion," replied George, with the 
sardonic grin habitual to hini on certain occasions. 

" Oh !" said the host, resuming his pipe and his fireplace. 

We spent the remaining hours of this memorable afternoon saunter- 
ing through the Notch, which is dripping with cascades, and noisy with 
mountain torrents. The Saco, here nothing but a brook, crawls lan- 
guidly along its bed of broken rock. From dizzy summit to where they 
meet the river, the old wasted mountains sit warming their scarred sides 
in the sun. Looking up at the passage of the railway around Mount 
Willey, it impressed us as a single fractured stone might have done on 
the Great Pyramid, or a pin's scratch on the face of a giant. The loco- 
motive, which groped its way along its broken shelf, stopped, and 
stealthily moving again, seemed a mouse that the laboring mountain had 
brought forth. But when its infernal clamor broke the silence, what 
demoniacal yells shook the forests ! Farewell to our dream of in\iolable 
nature. The demon of progress had forced his way into the ver\- sanct- 
uary. There were no longer any White Mountains. 

We passed by the beautiful brook Kedron, flung down from the 
utmost heights of Willey, between banks mottled with colors. Then, 
high up on our right, two airy water-falls seemed to hang suspended 
from the summit of Webster. These, called respectively the Silver 



THROUGH THE NOTCff 



S5 



-^ 




^;M 



THE CASCADES, MOUNT WEBSTER 

Cascade, and the Flume withdrew the 
attention from every other object, until ^ 

a sharp turn to the right brought the o\-er- ■•- """"H^ 
hanging precipice of Mount Willard full upon us. 
This enormous mass of granite, rising seven hun- 
dred feet above the road, stands in the very jaws of 
the gorge, which it commands from end to end. 

Here the railway seems fairly stopped ; but with a graceful 




86 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

sweep it eludes the mountain, and glides around its massive shoulder, 
gi\-ing, as it does so, a hand to the high-road, which comes straggling up 
the sharp ascent. The river, now shnmken to a rivulet, is finally lost 
to view beneath heaped -up blocks of granite, which the infuriated old 
mountain has hurled down upon it. It is heard painfully gurgling under 
the ruins, like a victim crushed, and dying by inches. 

Now and here we entered a close, dark defile hewn down between 
cliffs, ascending on the right in regular terraces, on the left in ruptured 
masses. These terraces were fringed at the top with tapering evergreens, 
and displayed gaudy tufts of maple and mountain-ash on their cool gray. 
Those on the right are furthermore decorated with natural sculptures, 
indicated by sign-boards, which the curious investigate profitably or un- 
profitablv. according to their fertility of imagination. 

For a few rods this narrow cleft continues ; then, on a sudden, the 
rocks which lift themselves on either side shut together. An enormous 
mass has tumbled from its ancient location on the left side, and, taking 
a position within twenty feet of the opposite precipice, forms the natural 
gate of the Notch, through which a way was made for the common road 
with great labor, through wliich the river frays a passage, but where no 
one would imagine there was room for either. The railway has made a 
breach for itself through the solid rock, greatly diminishing the native 
grandeur of the place. All three emerge from the shadow and gloom of 
the pass into the cheerful sunshine of a little prairie, at the extremity of 
which are seen the white walls of a hotel. 

The whole route we had traversed is full of contrasts, full of sur- 
prises ; but this sudden transition was the most picturesque, the most 
startlina: of all. We seemed to have reached the end of the world. 



tVi'.i irj-OA'DS. 87 



IX. 

CRA WFORD'S. 

The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts 
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose. 

Shakspeare. 

ALL who have passed mucli time at the mountains have seen the 
elephant — near the gate of the Notch. 

Though it is only from Nature "s chisel, the elephant is an honest one, 
and readily admitted into the category of things curious or marvellous 
constantly displayed for our inspection. Standing on the piazza of the 
hotel, the enormous forehead and trunk seem just emerging from the 
shaggy woods near the entrance to the pass. And the gray of the 
granite strengthens the illusion still more. From the Elephant's Head, 
a title suggestive of the near vicinity of a public-house, there is a fine 
view down the Notch for those who cannot ascend Mount Willard. 

The Crawford House, being built at the highest point of the pass, 
nearly two thousand feet above the sea, is not merely a hotel — it is a 
water-shed. The roof divides the rain falling upon it into two streams, 
flowing on one side into the Saco, on the other into the Ammonoosuc. 
Here the sun rises over the Willey range, and sets behind Mount Clin- 
ton. The north side of the piazza enables you to look over the forests 
into the valley of the Ammonoosuc, where the view is closed by the 
chain dividing this basin from that of Israels River. But we are not 
yet ready to conduct the reader into this Promised Land. 

My window overlooked a grass\- plain of perhaps half a mile, the 
view being cl(;sed by the Gate of the Notch, now disfigured by snow- 
sheds built for the protection of the railway. The massive, full-rounded 
bulk of Webster rose abo\e, the forests of Willard tumbled down into 
the ragged fissure. Half-way between the hotel and the Gate, over- 
borne bv the big shadow of Mount Clinton, extends the pretty lakelet 



THE HEART OE THE W H I'T E M O U X T A I N S . 





% 



ELETHA.NT S HEAD, WINTER. 



which is the fountain-head of the Saco. Beyond the lake, and at the 
left, is where the old Notch House stood. This lake was once a bea- 
ver-pond, and this plain a boggy meadow, through which a road of cor- 
duroy and sods conducted the early traveller. The highway and rail- 
way run amicably side by side, dividing the little vale in two. 

This pass, which was certainly known to the Indians, was, in 1771, 
rediscovered by Timothy Nash, a hunter, who was persuaded by Benja- 
min Sawyer, another hunter, to admit him to an equal share in the dis- 
covery. In 1773 Nash and Sawyer received a grant of 2184 acres, skirt- 
ing the mountains on the west, as a reward. With the prodigality char- 
acteristic of their class, the hunters squandered their large acquisition in 



CRAWFORD' S. 89 

a little time after it was granted. Both the Crawford and Fabyan hotels 
stand upon their tract. 

Of many excursions which this secluded retreat offers, that to the 
summit of Mount Washington, by the bridle-path opened in 1840 by 
Thomas J. Crawford, and that to the top of Mount Willard, are the prin- 
cipal. The route to the first begins opposite to the hotel, at the left ; 
the latter turns from the glen a cjuarter of a mile below, on the right. 
Supposing Mount Washington a cathedral set on an eminence, you are 
here on the summit of the eminence, with one foot on the immense stair- 
case of the cathedral. 

Our resolve to ascend by the bridle-path was already formed, and we 
regarded the climb up Mount Willard as indispensable. As for the cas- 
cades, which lulled us to sleep, who shall describe them } We could not 
lift our eyes to the heights above without seeing one or more fluttering 
in the play of the breeze, and making rainbows in pure diversion. Presi- 
dent Dwight, in his " Travels," has no more eloquent passage than that 
describing the Flume Cascade. How many since have thrown down pen 
or pencil in sheer despair of reproducing, by words or pigments, the 
ai'rial lightness, the joyous freedom; above all, the exuberant, unquench- 
able vitality that characterize mountain water-falls ! Down the Notch is 
a masterpiece, hidden from the eye of the passer-by, called Ripley Falls, 
which fairly revels in its charming seclusion. Only a short walk from 
the hotel, by a woodland path, there is another, Beecher's Cascade, whose 
capricious leaps and playful somersaults, all the while volubly chatter- 
ing to itself, like a child alone with its playthings, fascinates us, as 
sky, water, and fire charm the eyes of an infant. It is always tumbling 
clown, and as often leaping to its feet to resume its frolicsome gambols, 
with no loss of sprightliness or sign of weariness that we can detect. 
Only a lover may sing the praises of these mountain cascades falling 
from the skies : 

" The torrent is the soul of the valley. Not only is it the Providence 
or the scourge, often both at once, but it gives to it a physiognomy ; it 
gladdens or saddens it ; it lends it a voice ; it communicates life to it. 
A valley without its torrent is only a hole." 

They give the name of Idlewild to the romantic sylvan retreat, 
reached by a winding path, diverging near the hotel, on the left. I 
visited it in company with Mr. Atwater, whose taste and enthusiasm for 
the work have converted the natural disorder of the mountain side into 

14 



go THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

a tnsting-place fit for elves and fairies ; but where one encounters ladies 
in elegant toilets, enjo}ing a quiet stroll among the fern -draped rocks. 
Some fine \i5tas of the valley mountains have been opened through the 
woods — beautiful little bits of blue, framed in illuminated foliage. One 
notes appro\'ingly the re\nval of an olden taste in the cutting and shap- 
ing of trees into rustic chairs, stairways, and arbors. 

After a day like ours, the great fires and admirable order of the hotel 
were grateful indeed. If it is true that the way to man's heart lies 
through his stomach, the cherr}- lipped waiter-girl, who whispered her 
seductive tale in my too-willing ear at supper, made a veritable conquest. 
My compliments to her, notwithstanding the penalty paid for lingering 
too long over the griddle-cakes. 

The autumn nights being cool, it was something curious to see the 
parlor doors ever\- now and then thrown wide open, to admit a man who 
came trundling in on a wheelbarrow a monster log fit for the celebra- 
tion of Yule-tide. The citj- guest, accustomed to the economy of wood 
at home, because it is dear, looks on this prodigality first with consterna- 
tion, and finally with admiration. When the big log is deposited on the 
blazing hearth amid fusees of sparks, the easy-chairs again close around 
the fireplace a charmed circle; and while the buzz of conversation goes 
on, and the faces are illuminated by the ruddy glow, the wood snaps, and 
hisses, and spits as if it had life and sense of feeling. The men talk in 
drowsy undertones ; the ladies, watching the chimney-soot catch fire and 
redden, point out to each other the old grandame's pictures of "folks 
coming home from meeting." This scene is the counterpart of a warm 
summer evening on the piazza — both t\-pical of unrestrained, luxurious 
indolence. How many pictures have appeared in that old fireplace ! 
and what experiences its embers re\"ived I Water shows us only our 
own faces in their proper mask — nothing more, nothing less ; but fire, 
the element of the supernatural, is able, so at least we believe, to unfold 
the future as easily as it turns our eyes into the past. If only we could 
read I 

When we arose in the morning, what was our astonishment to see 
the surrounding mountains white with snow. Like one smitten with 
sudden terror, they had grown gray in a night. Striking, indeed, was 
the transformation from yesterday's pomp ; beautiful the contrast be- 
tween the dark green below and the dead white of the upper zones. 
Thickly incrusted with hoar-frost, the stiffened foliage of the pines and 



CRA WFORD'S. 



91 



firs gave those trees the unwonted appearance of bursting into blos- 
som. Over all a dull and brooding sky shed its cold, wan light upon 
the glen, forbidding all thought of attacking the high summits, at least 
for this day. 

Dismissing this, therefore, as impracticable, we nevertheless deter- 
mined on ascending Mount Willard — an easy thing to do; considering 
you have only to follow a good carriage-road for two miles and a half to 
reach the precipices overlooking the Saco Vallev. 

Startling, indeed, by its sublimity was the spectacle that rewarded our 
trouble a thou- 




sand-fold. Still, 
the sensations 
partook more of 
wonder than ad- 
miration — much 
more. The un- 
practised eye is - 
so utterly con- i>; 
founded by the ^' 
immensitv of this 
awful chasm of 
the Notch, yawn- 
ing in all its extent 
and all its grandeur 
far down beneath, tiTat, power- 
less to grasp the fulness and 
the vastness thus suddenly - 
encountered, it stupidly stares 
into those far-retreating depths. 
The scene really seems too tre- 
mendous for flesh and blood 
to comprehend. For an in- 
stant, while standing on the 
brink of the sheer precipice, 

which here suddenly drops seven or eight hundred feet, my head swam 
and my knees trembled. 

First came the idea that I was looking down into the dry bed of 
some primeval cataract, whose mighty rush and roar the imagination 




LOOKINT. MOWN THn NOTCH. 



92 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

summoned again from the tomb of ages, and whose echo was in the cas- 
cades, hung like two white arms on the black and hairy breast of the 
adjacent mountain. This idea carries us back to the Deluge, of which 
science pretends to have found proofs in the basin of the Notch. What 
am I saving } to the Deluge ! it transports us to the Beginning itself, 
when ''Darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God 
vioved upon the face of the waters." 

You see the immense walls of Mount Willey on one side, and of 
Webster on the other, rushing downward thousands of feet, and meet- 
ing in one magnificently imposing sweep at their bases. This vast nat- 
ural inverted archway has the heavens for a roof. The eye roves from 
the shagg}' head of one mountain to the shattered cornices of the other. 
One is terrible, the other forbidding. The naked precipices of Willey, 
furrowed by avalanches, still show where the fatal slide of 1826 crushed 
its way down into the valley, traversing a mile in only a few moments. 
Far down in the distance you see the Willey hamlet and its bright clear- 
ing. You see the Saco's silver. 

Such, imperfectly, are the more salient features of this immense cav- 
ity of the Notch, three miles long, two thousand feet deep, rounded as if 
by art, and as full of suggestions as a ripe melon of seeds. I recall few- 
natural wonders so difficult to get away from, or that haunt you so per- 
petually. 

Like ivy on storied and crumbling towers, so high up the cadaverous 
cliffs of Willey the hardy fir-tree feels its way, insinuating its long roots 
in every fissure where a little mould has crept, but mounting always like 
the most intrepid of climbers. Upon the other side, the massed and 
plumed forest advances boldly up the sharp declivity of Webster; but in 
mid-ascent is met and ploughed in long, thin lines by cataracts of stones. 
poured down upon it from the summit. Only a few straggling bushes 
succeed in mounting higher; and far up, upon the ver}' edge of the 
crumbling parapet, one solitary cedar tottered. The thought of immi- 
nent destruction prevailed over every other. Indeed, it seemed as if one 
touch would precipitate the whole mass of earth, stones, and trees into 
the vale beneath. 

Between these high, receding walls, which draw widely apart at the 
outlet of the pass, mountains rise, range upon range. Over the flattened 
Nancy summits, Chocorua lifts his crested head once more into view. 
We pass in review the summits massed between, which on this morning 



CA'AJVFORD'S. g^ 

were of a deep blue -black, and stood vigorously forth from a sad and 
boding sky. 

From the ledges of Mount Willard, Washington and the peaks be- 
tween are visible in a clear day. This morning they were mufifled in 
clouds, which a strong upper current of air began slowly to disperse. 
We, therefore, secured a good position, and waited patiently for the 
unveiling. 

Little by little the clouds shook themselves free from the mountain, 
and began a slow, measured movement toward the Ammonoosuc Val- 
ley. As they were drawn out thinner and thinner, like fleeces, by invisi- 
ble hands, we began to be conscious of some luminous object behind 
them, and all at once, through a rift, there burst upon the sight the 
grand mass of Washington, all resplendent in silvery whiteness. From 
moment to moment the trooping clouds, as if pausing to pay homao-e 
to the illustrious recluse, encompassed it about. Then moving on, the 
endless procession again and again disclosed the snowy crest, shining 
out in unshrouded effulgence. To look was to be wonder-struck — to be 
dumb. 

As the clouds unrolled more and more their snowy billows, other 
and lower summits rose above, as on that memorable morn after the 
Deluge, where they appeared like islands of crystal floating in a sea of 
silvery vapor. We gazed for an hour upon this unearthly display, which 
derived unique splendor from fitful sun-rays shot through the folds of 
surrounding clouds, then drawing off, and again darting unawares upon 
the stainless white of the summits. It was a dream of the celestial 
spheres to see the great dome, one moment glittering like beaten sil- 
ver, another shining with the dull lustre of a gigantic opal. 

I have since made several journeys through the Notch by the rail- 
way. The effect of the scenery, joined with some sense of peril in the 
minds of the timid, is very marked. Old travellers find a new and veri- 
table sensation of excitement; while new ones forget fatigue, drop the 
novels they have been reading, maintaining a state of breathless sus- 
pense and admiration until the train vanishes out at the rocky portal, 
after an ascent of nearly si.v hundred feet in two miles. 

In effect, the road is a most striking expression of the maxim, " L\j!i- 
dacL\ ct toiijours dc raudaa\^ as applied to modern engineering skill. 
From Bemiss to Crawford's its way is literally carved out of the side 
of the mountain. But if the engineers have stolen a march upon it, the 



94 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOiXTAIXS. 



thought, how easily the mountain could shake off this puny, clinging 
thing, prevailing over ever}- other, announces that the mountain is still 
the master. 

There are no two experiences which the traveller retains so long or 
so \-ividly as this journey through the great Notch, and this sur\'ey from 
the ledges of Mount Willard, which is so admirably placed to command 
it. To my mind, the position of this mountain suggests the doubt 
whether nature did not make a mistake here. Was not the splitting 
of the mountains an after-thought .^ 



THE ASCENT EROM CRAWEORD'S. 



95 



X. 

THE ASCENT EROM CRAWFORD'S. 

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 
With a diadem of snow. — Manfred. 

AT five in the morning I was aroused by a loud rap at the door. In 
an instant I had jumped out of bed, ran to tlie window, and peered 
out. It was still dark : but the heavens were bright with stars, so bright 
that there was light in the room. Now or never was our opportunity. 
Not a moment was to be lost. 

I began a vigorous reveille upon the window-pane. George half 
opened one sleepy eye, and asked if the house was on fire. The colonel 
pretended not to have heard. 

" Up, sluggards !" I exclaimed ; " the mountain is ours !" 

" Do you know who first tempted man to go up into a high moun- 
tain .■"" growled George. 

" Satan !" whined a smothered voice from beneath the bedclothes. 

The case evidently was one which demanded heroic treatment. In 
an instant I whipped off the bedclothes ; in another I received two vio- 
lent blows full in the chest, which compelled me to give ground. The 
pillows were followed by the bolster, which I parried with a chair, the 
bolster by a sortie of the garrison in puris naturalibus. For a few sec- 
onds the melee was furious, the air thick with flying missiles. By a 
common instinct we drew apart, with the intention of renewing the com- 
bat, when we heard quick blows upon the partition at the left, and 
scared voices from the chamber at the right demanding what was the 
matter. George dropped his pillow, and articulated in a broken voice, 
" Malediction ! I am awake." 

" Come, gentlemen," I urged, " if you are sufficiently diverted, dress 
yourselves, and let us be off. At the present moment you remind me of 
the half-armed warriors on the pediment of the Parthenon." 



96 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUInTAINS. 

^ I take it -ieze," said George, with chattering teeth. 

~" - ' " ' . different articles of his 

r. " Mv stockinsrr said 



he, gropir_ 

.. AT" 



-red George, £:^ ...^ i..^ dripping arti- 
i=. niv watch ?" redemanded the colonel, still 



■ Eh: 

seeking. 

"Perhaps this is yours?" Ge ^ _ suggested, drawing it v^i 
mock dexterit}-. as h 

\Ve quick!}- thr 
George put his har 

"What - - 

-My ]^ 

After &vc : 
and after shaki ^ 
covered that G 
down-stair- _ 

a sleepy -. 
chilly : it was 



ootJeg- 

-oment of starting 

_ ice. 

-..le room. 

- : was dis- 

:5. We then went 



never himself 



at five in the 



. lasting, s: 

i^'s.: :^r j^c c:-v- ^.;:^ - '...-r -ky, i:" 
were streaTninf. The last star tremble 



_ amour. 



ghastlv white with the ^ v of rev: 

r forests - tr.c ::r.; 

:. lastly, t:- . z Notch. 

:-.:;h ascended the shagg)- sides of Moimt Wiiiard. anc 



I LO urCc&u^. 



After a hast}- breakfast 
IS at half- past six entering 



Mv 



THE ASCENT E/iOM CRAWFORD'S. 



97 



again found tlieir accustomed gayety, and soon the solemn old woods 
echoed with mirth. Our hopes were as high as the mountain itself. 

A de'tour as far as Gibbs's Falls cost a good half-hour in recovering 
the bridle-path; but we were at length en r^?//^, myself at the head, 
George behind. The colonel carried the ffask, and marched in the mid- 
dle. He was considered the most incorruptible of the three; but this 
precaution was deemed an indispensable safeguard, should he, in a 
moment of forgetfulness, carry the flask to his lips. 

The side of Mount Clinton, which we were now climbing, is very 
steep. The name of bridle-path, which they give the long gully we had 
entered, is a snare for pedestrians, but a greater delusion for cavaliers. 
The rains, the melting snows, have so channelled it as to leave little 
besides interlaced roots of old trees and loose bowlders in its bed. 
Higher up it is nothing but the bare course of a mountain torrent. 

The long rain had thoroughly soaked the earth, rendering it miry 
and slippery to the feet ; the heavy air, compounded of a thousand 
odors, hindered, rather than assisted, the free play of the lungs. Our 
progress was slow, our breathing quick and labored. Every leaf trem- 
bled with rain -drops, so that the flight of a startled bird overhead 
sprinkled us with fine spray. Finches chattered in the tree-tops, squir- 
rels scolded us sharply from fallen logs. 

Looking up was like looking through some glorious, illuminated win- 
dow — the changed foliage seemed to ha\-e fixed the gorgeous hues of the 
sunset. Through its crimson and gold, violet and green, patches of blue 
sky greeted us with fair promise for the day. Looking ahead, the path 
zigzagged among ascending trees, plunged into the sombre depths above 
our heads, and was lost. One impression that I received may be, yet I 
doubt, common to others. On either side of me the forest seemed all in 
motion ; the dusky trunks striding silently and stealthily by, moving 
when we moved, halting when we halted. The greenwood was as full 
of illusions as the human heart. I can never repress a certain fear in a 
forest, and to-day this seemed peopled with sprites, gnomes, and fauns. 
Once or twice a crow rose lazily from the top of a dead pine, and flew 
croaking away; but we thought not of omens or auguries, and pushed 
gayly on up the sharp ascent. 

It was a wild woodland walk, with few glimpses out of the forest. 
For about a mile we steered toward the sun, climbing one of the long 
braces of the mountain. Stopping near here, at a spring deliciously 

15 



gS THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

pure and cold, we soon turned toward tlie north. As we ad\'anced up 
the mountain the sun began to gild the tree -tops, and stray beams to 
play at hide-and-seek among the black trunks. We saw dells of Arca- 
dian loveliness, and we heard the noise of rivulets, trickling in their 
depths, that we did not see. 

Wh-r-r-r! rose a startled partridge, directly in our path, bringing us 
to a full stop. Another and another took flight. 

" Gad !" muttered the colonel, wiping his forehead, " I was dreaming 
of old times ; I declare I thought the mountain had got our range, and 
was shelling us." 

''Salmis of partridge; sauce aitx chainpii^uonsr i^^^d George, licking 
his lips, and looking wistfully after the birds. You see, one spoke from 
the head, the other from the stomach. 

Half an hour's steady tramp brought us to an abandoned camp, 
where travellers formerly passed the night. A long stretch of corduroy 
road, and we were in the region of resinous trees. Here it was like 
going up rickety stairs, the mossed and sodden logs affording only a 
treacherous foothold. Evidence that we were nearing the summit was 
on all sides. Patches of snow covered the ground and were lodged 
among the branches. From these little runlets made their way into the 
path, as the most convenient channel. There were many dead pines, 
having their curiously distorted limbs hung with the long gray lichen 
called " old man's beard." Multitudes of great trees, prostrated by the 
wind, lay rotting along the ground, or had lodged in falling, constituting 
a woful picture of wreck and ruin. Here was not only the confusion 
and havoc of a primitive forest, untouched by the axe, but the battle- 
ground of ages, where frost, fire, and flood had steadily and pitilessly 
beaten the forest back in every desperate effort made to scale the sum- 
mit. Prone upon the earth, stripped naked, or bursting their bark, the 
dead trees looked like fallen giants despoiled of their armor, and left 
festering upon the field. But we advanced to a scene still more weird. 

The last mile gives occasional glimpses into the Ammonoosuc Val- 
ley, of Fabyan's, of the hamlet at the base of Washington, and of the 
mountains between Fabyan's and Jefferson. The last half-mile is a 
steady planting of one foot before another up the ledges. We left the 
forest for a scanty growth of firs, rooted among enormous rocks, and hav- 
ing their branches pinned down to their sides by snow and ice. The 
whole forest had been seized, pinioned, and cast into a death-like stupor. 



THE ASCENT FROM CKAWFORDS. 99 

Each tree seemed to keep tlie attitude in whicli it was first overtaken ; 
each silvered head to have dropped on its breast at the moment the 
spell overcame it. Perpetual imprisonment rewarded the temerity of 
the forest for thus invading the dominion of the Ice King. There it 
stood, all glittering in its crystal chains ! 

But as we threaded our way among these trees, still as statues, the 
sun came valiantly to the rescue. A warm breath fanned our cheeks 
and traversed the ice-locked forest. Instantly a thrill ran along the 
mountain. Quick, snapping noises filled the air. The trees burst their 
fetters in a trice. Myriad crystals fluttered overhead, or fell tinkling on 
the rocks at our feet. Another breath, and tree after tree lifted its bowed 
head gracefully erect. The forest was free. 

George, who began by asking e\ery few rods how much farther it 
was, now repeated the question for the fiftieth time ; but we paid no 
attention. 

We now entered a sort of liliputian forest, not higher than the knee, 
but which must have presented an almost insuperable barrier to early 
explorers of the mountain. In fact, as they could neither go through 
it nor around it, they must have walked over it, the thick-matted foliage 
rendering this the only alternative. No one could tell how long these 
trees had been growing, when a winter of unheard-of severity destroyed 
them all, leaving only their skeletons bleaching in the sun and weather. 
Wrenched, twisted, and made to grow the wrong way by the wind, the 
branches resembled the cast-off antlers of some extinct race of quadru- 
peds which had long ago resorted to the top of the mountain. The gir- 
dle of blasted trees below was piteous, but this was truly a strange spec- 
tacle. Indeed, the pallid forehead of the mountain seemed wearing a 
crown of thorns. 

Getting clear of the dwarf- trees, or knee -wood, as it is called in the 
Alps, we ran quickly up the bare summit ledge. The transition from 
the gloom and desolation below into clear sunshine and free air was 
almost as great as from darkness to light. We lost all sense of fatigue ; 
we felt only exultation and supreme content. 

Here we were, we three, more than foiu" thousand feet above the sea, 
confronted by an expanse so vast that no eye but an eagle's might grasp 
it, so thronged with upstarting peaks as to confound and bewilder us out 
of all power of expression. One feeling was uppermost — our own insig- 
nificance. We were like Hies on the gigantic forehead of an elephant. 



lOO THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

However, we had climbed and were astride tlie ridge-pole of New 
England. The rains which beat upon it descend on one side to the 
Atlantic, on the other to Long Island Sound. The golden sands which 
are the glory of the New England coast have been borne, atom b)' atom, 
grain by grain, from this grand laboratory of Nature ; and if you would 
know the source of her great industries, her wealth, her prosperity, seek 
it along the rivers which are born of these skies, cradled in these ravines, 
and nourished amid the tangled mazes of these impenetrable forests. 
How, like beautiful serpents, their sources lie knotted and coiled in the 
heart of these mountains ! How lovingly they twine about the feet of the 
grand old hills ! Too proud to bear its burdens, they create commerce, 
building cities, scattering wealth as they run on. No barriers can stay, 
no chains fetter their free course. They laugh and run on. 

We stood facing the south. Far down beneath us, at our left, was 
the valley of Mount Washington River. A dark, serpentine rift in the 
unbroken forest indicated the course of the stream. Mechanically we 
turned to follow it up the long gorge through which it flows, to where 
it issues, in secret, from the side of Mount Washington itself. In front 
of us arose the great Notch Mountains ; beyond, mountains were piled 
on mountains ; higher still, like grander edifices of some imperial city, 
towered the pinnacles of Lafayette, Carrigain, Chocorua, Kearsarge, and 
the rest. Yes, there they were, pricking the keen air with their blunted 
spears, fretting the blue vault with the everlasting menace of a power to 
mount higher if it so willed, filling us with the daring aspiration to rise 
as high as they pointed. Here and there something flashed brightly 
upon the eye ; but it was no easy thing to realize that those little pools 
we saw glistening among the mountains were some of the largest lakes 
in New England. 

Leaving the massive Franconia group, the eye swept over the Ammo- 
noosuc basin, over the green heights of Bethlehem and Littleton, over- 
topped by the distant Green Mountains ; then along the range dividing 
the waters flowing from the western slopes of the great summits into sep- 
arate streams ; then Whitefield, Lancaster, Jefferson ; and, lastly, rested 
upon the amazing apparition of Washington, rising two thousand feet 
above the crags on which we stood. Perched upon the cap-stone of 
this massive pile, like a dove-cot on the cupola of St. Peter's, we dis- 
tinctly saw the Summit House. Between us and our goal rose the 
brown heads of Pleasant, Franklin, and Monroe, over which our path 



THE ASCENT EKOM CRAWFORD S. lOl 

lay. All these peaks and their conncctini^ ridges were freely spattered 
witli snow. 

"By Jove!" ejaculated the colonel at last; "this beats Kentucky!" 

It is necessary to say two words concerning a spectacle equally 
novel and startling to dwellers in more temperate regions, and which 
now held us in mingled astonishment and admiration. We could hardly 
believe our eyes. This bleak and desolate ridge, where only scattered 
tufts of coarse grass, stinted shrubs, or spongy moss gave evidence of 
life, which seemed never to have known the warmth of a sunbeam, 
was transformed into a garden of exquisite beauty by the frozen north 
wind. 

We remarked the iced branches of dwarf firs inhabiting the upper 
zone of the mountain as we passed them ; but here, on this summit, the 
surfaces of the rocks actually bristled with spikes, spear-heads, and lance- 
points, all of ice, all shooting in the direction of the north wind. The 
forms were as various as beautiful, but most commonly took that of a 
single spray, though sometimes they were moulded into perfect clusters 
of berries, branching coral, or pendulous crystals. Common shrubs were 
transformed to diamond aigrettes, coarse grasses into bird -of -paradise 
plumes, bv the simple adhesion of frost-dust. The iron rocks attracted 
the flying particles as the loadstone attracts steel. Cellini never fash- 
ioned anything half so marvellous as this exquisite workmanship of a 
frozen mist. Yet, though it was all surpassingly beautiful, it was 
strano-ely suggestive of death. There was no life — no, not even the 
chirrup of an insect. No wonder our eyes sought the valley. 

Hardly had we time to take in these unaccustomed sights, when, to 
our unspeakable dismay, ominous streakings of gray appeared in the 
southern and eastern horizons. The sun was already overclouded, and 
emitted only a dull glare. For a moment a premonition of defeat came 
over me; but another look at the summit removed all indecision, and, 
without mentioning my fears to my companions, we all three plunged 
into the bushy ravine that leads to Mount Pleasant. 

.Suddenly I felt the wind in my face, and the air was filled with 
whirling snow-flakes. We had not got over half the distance to the sec- 
ond mountain, before the ill-omened vapors had expanded into a storm- 
cloud that boded no good to any that might be abroad on the mountain. 
My idea was that we could gain the summit before it oxertook us. I 
accordingly lengthened my steps, and we moved on at a pace which 



I02 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

brought us quickly to the second mountain. But, rapidly as we had 
marched, the storm was before us. 

Here began our first experience of the nature of the task in hand. 
The burly side of Mount Pleasant was safely turned, but beyond this 
snow had obliterated the path, which was only here and there indicated 
by little heaps of loose stones. It became difficult, and we frequently 
lost it altogether among the deep drifts. We called a halt, passed the 
flask, and attempted to derive some encouragement from the prospect. 

The storm-cloud was now upon us in downright earnest. Already 
the flying scud drifted in our faces, and poured, like another Niagara, 
over the ridge one long, unbroken billow. The sun retreated farther 
and farther, until it looked like a farthing dip shining behind a blanket. 
Another furious blast, and it disappeared altogether. And now, to render 
our discomfiture complete, the gigantic dome of Washington, that had 
lured us on, disappeared, swallowed up in a vortex of whirling vapor; 
and presently we were all at once assailed by a blinding snow-squall. 
Henceforth there was neither luminary nor landmark to guide us. 
None of us had any knowledge of the route, and not one had thought 
of a guide. To render our situation more serious still, George now 
declared that he had sprained an ankle. 

If I had never before realized how the most vigorous travellers had 
perished within a few paces of the summit, I understood it this day. 

Bathed in perspiration, warned by the fresh snow that the path 
would soon be lost beyond recovery, we held a brief council upon the 
situation before and behind us. It was more than aggravating either 
way. 

All three secretly favored a retreat. Without doubt it was not only 
the safest, but the wisest course to pursue ; yet to turn back was to give 
in beaten, and defeat was not easy to accept. Even George, notwith- 
standing his ankle, was pluckily inclined to go on. There was no time 
to lose, so we emerged from the friendly shelter of a jutting ledge upon 
the trackless waste before us. 

From this point, at the northern foot of Pleasant, progress was neces- 
sarily slow. We could not distinguish objects twenty paces through the 
flying scud and snow, and we knew vaguely that somewhere here the 
mountain ridge suddenly broke off, on both sides, into precipices thou- 
sands of feet down. George, being lame, kept the middle, while the 
colonel and I searched for stone-heaps at the right and left. 



THE ASCENT FROM CRAUTORD'S. 103 

We were marching along tluis, when I heard an exclamation, and saw 
the colonel's hat driven past me through the air. The owner ran rapidly 
over to my side. 

" Take care !" I shouted, throwing myself in his path ; " take care !" 
" But my hat !" cried he, pushing on past me. The wind almost 
drowned our voices. 

"Are you mad .^" I screamed, griping his arm, and forcing him back- 
ward by main strength. 

He gave me a dazed look, but seemed to comprehend nothing of my 
excitement. George halted, looking first at one, then at the other. 

" Wait," said I, loosening a piece of ice with my boot. On both 
sides of us rose a whirlpool of boiling clouds. I tossed the piece of ice 
in the direction the hat had taken — not a sound; a second after the 
first — the same silence; a third in the opposite direction. We listened 
intently, painfully, but could hear nothing except the loud beating of our 
own hearts. A dozen steps more would have precipitated our compan- 
ion from the top to the bottom of the mountain. 

I looked at the man whose arm I still tightl)- grasped. He was as 
pale as a corpse. 

" This must be Oakes's Gulf," I ventured, in order to break the silence, 
after we had all taken a pull at the flask. 

" This is Oakes's Gulf — agreed ; but where in perdition is my hat T 
demanded the colonel, wiping the big drops from his forehead. 

After he had tied a handkerchief around his head, we crossed this 
Devil's Bridge, with the caution of men fully alive to the consequences 
of a false step, and with that tension of the nerves which announces the 
terrible or the unknown.' 

We had not gone far when a tremendous gust sent us reeling toward 
the abyss. I dropped on my hands and knees, and my companions fol- 
lowed suit. We arose, shook off the snow, and slowly mounted the long, 
steep, and rocky side of Franklin. Upon gaining the summit, the walk- 
ing was better. We were also protected by the slope of the mountain. 



• I have since passed over the same route without finding those sensations to which our 
inexperience, and the tempest which surrounded us, rendered us peculiarly liable. In reality, 
the ridge connecting Mount Pleasant with Mount Franklin is passed without hesitation, in 
good weather, by the most timid ; but when a rod of the way cannot be seen the case is dif- 
ferent, and caution necessary. The view of this natural bridge from the summit of Mount 
Franklin is one of the imposing sights of the day's march. 



I04 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

The worst seemed over. But what fantastic objects were the big rocks, 
scattered, or rather lying in wait, along our route ! What grotesque 
appearances continually started out of the clouds ! Now it was an enor- 
mous bear squatted on his haunches; now a dark-browed sphinx; and 
more than once we could have sworn we saw human beings stealthily 
watching us from a distance. How easy to imagine these weird objects 
lost travellers, suddenly turned to stone for their presumptuous invasion 
of the domain of terrors ! It really seemed as if we had but to stamp 
our feet to see a legion of demons start into life and bar our wav. 

Say what )^ou will, we could not shake off the dread which these 
unearthly objects inspired ; nor could we forbear, were it at the risk of 
being turned to stone, looking back, or peering furtively from side to 
side when some new apparition thrust its hideous suggestions before us. 
What would you have .^ Are we not all children who shrink from enter- 
ing a haunted chamber, and shudder in the presence of death .' W^ell, 
the mountain was haunted, and death seemed near. We forgot fatigue, 
forgot cold, to yield to this mysterious terror, which daunted us as no 
peril could do, and froze us with vague presentiment of the unknown. 

Covered from head to foot with snow, bearded with icicles, tracking 
this solitude, which refused the echo of a foot -fall, like spectres, we 
seemed to hax-e entered the debatable ground forever dedicated to spirits 
having neither home on earth nor hope in heaven, but doomed to wan- 
der up and down these livid crags for an eternity of woe. The moun- 
tain had already taken possession of our physical, now it seized upon our 
moral nature. Neither the one nor the other could resist the impres- 
sions which naked rock, furious tempest, and hidden danger stamped on 
every foot of the way. 

In this way we reached Mount Monroe, last of the peaks in our 
route to the summit, where we were forced to pick our way among the 
rocks, struggling forward through drifts frequently waist deep. 

It was here that, finding mvself some distance in advance of the oth- 
ers — for poor George was lagging painfully — I halted for them to come 
up. I was choking with thirst, aggravated by eating the damp snow. 
As soon as the colonel was near enough — the wind only could be heard 
— I made a gesture of a man drinking. He did not seem to under- 
stand, though I impatiently repeated the pantomime. He came to where 
I stood. 

" The flask !" I exclaimed. 



THE ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S. 105 

He drew it slowly from his pocket, and handed it to me with a hang- 
dog look that I failed for the moment to interpret. I put it to my lips, 
shook it, turned it bottom up. Not a drop ! 

And, nevertheless, this was the man in whom I had trusted. Caesar 
only succumbed to the dagger of Brutus; but I had not the courage to 
fall with dignity under this new misfortune, and so stood starmg at the 
flask and the culprit alternately. 

" Say that our cup is now full," suggested the incorrigible George. 
" The paradox strikes me as ingenious and appropriate." 

It really was too bad. Snow and sleet had wet us to the skin, and 
clung to our frozen garments. Our hands and faces were swollen and 
inflamed; our eyes half closed and blood -shot. Even this short min- 
ute's halt set our teeth chattering. George could only limp along, and 
it was evident could not hold out much longer. Just now my uneasi- 
ness was greater than my sympathy. He was an accessory before the 
fact ; for, while I was diligently looking out the path, he had helped the 
colonel to finish the flask. 

We were nearing the goal : so much was certain. But the violence 
of the gale, increasing with the greater altitude, warned us against delay. 
We therefore pushed on across the stony terraces extending beyond, and 
were at length rewarded by seeing before us the heaped-up pile of broken 
cn-anite constituting the peak of Washington, and ^^•hich we knew stfll 
rose a thousand feet above our heads. The sight of this towermg mass, 
which seems formed of the debris of the Creation, is well calculated to 
staacrer more adventurous spirits than the three weary and foot-sore 
men^who stood watching the cloud-billows, silently rolling up, dash them- 
selves unceasingly against its foundations. We looked first at the moun- 
tain, then in each other's faces, then began the ascent. 

ipor near an hour we toiled upward, sometimes up to the middle m 
snow alwavs carefullv feeling our way among the treacherous pitfalls it 
concealed ' Compelled to halt every few rods to recover breath, the dis- 
tance traversed could not be great. Still, with dogged perseverance, we 
kept on, occasionally lending each other a helping hand out of a drift, or 
from rock to rock ; but no words were exchanged, for the stock of gayety 
with which we set out was now exhausted. The gravity of the situation 
becran to create uneasiness in the minds of my companions. All at once 
I heard my name called out. I turned. It was the colonel, whose hal- 
loo in midst of this stony silence startled me. 

16 



I06 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

" You pretend," he began, " that it's only a thousand feet from the 
plateau to the top of this accursed mountain ?" 

" No more, no less. Professor Guyot assures us of the fact." 

" Well, then, here we ha\e been zigzagging about for a good hour, 
haven't we .''" 

"An hour and twenty minutes," said I, consulting my watch. 

"And not a sign of the houses or the railway, or any other creep- 
ing thing. Do you want my opinion ?" 

" Charmed." 

" We have passed the houses without seeing them in the storm, and 
are now on the side of the mountain opposite from where we started." 

" So that you conclude — ?'' 

" We are lost." 

This was, of course, mere guesswork ; but we had no compass, and 
might be travelling in the wrong direction, after all. A moment's re- 
flection, however, reassured me. " Is that your opinion, too, George .^" I 
asked. 

George had taken off his boot, and was chafing his swollen ankle. 
He looked up. 

"My opinion is that I don't know anything about it; but as you got 
us into this scrape, you had better get us out of it, and be sprj- about it 
too, for the deuce take me if I can go much farther." 

" Why," croaked the colonel, " I recollect hearing of a traveller who, 
like us, actually walked by the Summit House without seeing it, when 
he was hailed by a man who, by mere accident, chanced to be outside, 
and who imagined he saw something moving in the fog. In five min- 
utes the stranger would inevitably have walked over a precipice with his 
eyes open." 

"And I remember seeing on the wall of the tavern where we stop- 
ped, at Bartlett, a placard offering a reward for a man who, like us, set 
out from Crawford's, and was never heard of," George put in.^ 

" And I read of one who, like us, almost reached the summit, but 
mistaking a lower peak for the pinnacle, losing his head, crawled, ex- 
hausted, under a rock to die there," I finished, firing the last shot. 

Without another word both my comrades grappled vigorously with 



' The remains of this ill-fated climber have since been found at the foot of the pinnacle. 
See chapter on Mount Washington. 



THE ASCENT FROM CRAWFORD'S. 107 

the mountain, and for ten minutes nothing was heard but our labored 
breathing. On whatever side wc might be, so long as we continued to 
ascend I had little fear of being in the wrong road. Our affair was to 
get to the top. 

At the end of ten minutes we came suddenly upon a walled en- 
closure, which we conjectured to be the corral at the end of the bridle- 
path. We hailed it like an oasis in the midst of this desert. We en- 
tered, brushed the snow from a stone, and sat down. 

Up to this time my umbrella had afforded a good deal of merri- 
ment to my companions, who could not understand why I encumbered 
myself with it on a day which began as this one did, perfectly clear 
and cloudless. Since the storm came on, the force of the wind would 
at any time have lifted off his feet the man w^ho attempted to spread 
it, and even if it had not, as well might one have walked blindfolded 
in that treacherous road as with an open umbrella before him. Now it 
was my turn, or, rather, the turn of the abused umbrella. A few mo- 
ments of rest were absolutely necessary ; but the wind cut like a cim- 
eter, and we felt ourselves freezing. I opened the umbrella, and, pro- 
tected by it from the wind, we crouched under its friendly shelter, and 
lighted our cigars. Never before did I know the luxury of a smoke like 
that. 

" Now," said I, complacently glancing up at our tent, " ever since I 
read how an umbrella saved a man's life, I determined never to go on a 
mountain without one." 

"An umbrella! How do you make that out?" demanded both my 
auditors. 

" It is very simple. He was lost on this very mountain, under con- 
ditions similar to those we are now experiencing, except that his carry- 
ing an umbrella was an accident, and that he was alone. He passed 
two nights under it. But the story will keep." 

It may well be imagined that we had not the least disposition to be 
merry; yet for all that there was something irresistibly comical in three 
men sitting with their feet in the snow, and putting their heads together 
under a single umbrella. Various were the conjectures. We could hear 
nothing but the rushing wind, see nothing but driving sleet. George be- 
lieved we were still half a mile from the summit ; the colonel was not 
able to precisely fix his opinion, but thought us still a long way off. 
After diligent search, in which we all joined, I succeeded in finding 



io8 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

something like a path turning to the right, and we again resumed our 
slow clambering over the rocks. 

Perhaps ten minutes passed thus, when we again halted and peered 
anxiously into the whirling \apor — nothing, neither monument nor 
stone, to indicate where we were. A new danger confronted us ; one I 
had hitherto repulsed because I dared not think of it. The light was 
failing, and darkness would soon be here. God help any that this night 
surprised on the mountain ! While we eagerly sought on all sides some 
evidence that human feet had ever passed that way, a terrific blast, that 
seemed to concentrate the fury of the tempest in one mighty effort, 
dashed us helpless upon the rocks. For some seconds we were blinded, 
and could only crouch low until its violence subsided. But as the mon- 
strous wave recoiled from the mountain, a piercing cry brought us 
quickly to our feet. 

"Look!" shouted George, waving his hat like a madman — "look 
there !" .he repeated. 

Vaguely, through the tattered clouds, like a wreck driving miserably 
before the tempest, we distinguished a building propped up by timbers 
crusted with thick ice. The gale shook and beat upon it with demonia- 
cal glee, but never did weary eyes rest on a more welcome object. For 
ten seconds, perhaps, we held it in view ; then, in a twinkling, the clouds 
rolled over it, shut together, and it was gone — swallowed up in the 
vortex. 

A moment of bewilderment succeeded, after which we made a simul- 
taneous rush in the direction of the building. In five minutes more we 
were within the hotel, thawing our frozen clothing before a rousing fire. 

It provokes a smile when I think of it. Here, in this frail structure, 
perched like another Noah's Ark on its mountain, and which every gust 
threatened to scatter to the winds of heaven, a grand piano was going in 
the parlor, a telegraphic instrument clicked in a corner, and we sat down 
to a menu that made the colonel forget the loss of his hat. 

" By the bones of Daniel Boone ! I can say as Napoleon did on the 
Great St. Bernard, ' I have spoiled a hat among your mountains ; well, I 
shall find a new one on the other side,' " observed the colonel, uncorking 
a second bottle of champagne. 



SECOND JOURNEY. 



PAGE 

I. LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS 113 

II. JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY 122 

III. THE CARTER NOTCH 132 

IV. THE PINKHAM NOTCH i44 

V. A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S 155 

VI. IN AND ABOUT GORHAM 165 

VII. ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD 178 

VIII. MOUNT WASHINGTON 189 



SECOND JOURNEY. 
I. 

LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS. 

My lord. I will hoist saile ; and all the wind 
My bark can beare shall hasten me to find 
A great new world.— Sir W. Daven.a^nt. 

WHEN Cabot, in the Maiknu, of Bristol, was sailing by the New 
England coast, and the amazed savage beheld a pyramid of white 
sails rising, like a cloud, out of the sea, the navigator saw from the deck 
of his ship, rising out of the land, a cluster of lofty summits cut like a 
cameo on the northern sky. 

The Indian left his tradition of the marvellous apparition, which he 
at first believed to be a mass of trees wrapped in faded foliage, drifting 
slowly at the caprice of the waves; but, as he gazed, fire streamed from 
the strange object, a cloud shut it from his view, and a peal like distant 
thunder was wafted on the breeze to his startled ears. That peal an- 
nounced the doom of his race. He was looking at the first ship. 

Succeeding navigators, Italians, Portuguese, French, English — a roll 
of famous names— sailed these seas, and, in their turn, hailed the distant 
summits. They became the great distinguishing landmarks of this cor- 
ner of the New World. They are found on all the maps traced by the 
early geographers from the relations of the discoverers themselves. Hav- 
ing thus found form and substance, they also found a name— the Moun- 
tains of St. John. 

Ships multiplied. Men of strange garb, speech, complexion, erected 
their habitations along the coast, the unresisting Indian never dreaming 
that the thin line which the sea had cast up would speedily rise to an 
inundation destined to sweep him from the face of the earth. Then 
began that steady advance, slow at first, gathering momentum with the 
years, before which he recoiled step by step, and finally disappeared for- 

17 



114 



THi 



OF THE 



-HI TE J/ O LXTA IXS. 



ever. His desrir.v ^-as accomplished. To-day on]\- mountains and 

- - " - - that he e\-er did exisL They are 

- - accusation. 

The \\ hite M :he Indian not only as an image, 

" - - "~ -" - "r-potence. His dreaded Manitou, 

.; ,:rr the lightning, and on whose 

as the counterpart of the terrible 

-- - - __ ... i palace of ice among frozen and 

inaccessi >. o\^r which he could be heard uiging his 

_ '.e tempest. Frost and fire, plague and 

agents common to the Indian and to 

the Nor- gy • ^"^ to his god of terrors the Indian conjurer 

-^'-v— - era. his i--~-*--" -- --^ his propitiatory offerings, 

:y had br :1 his tribe. But to crces 

- _ - ce of the Mani- 

_ " which Nature 

V wealth he believed the mountain 

.e the swift and terrible ven- 

Manitou. So far, then, as he 

:e, in\-iolable. as a kind of 

- ; .._-. -.vho in an e\"il hour trans- 



As c 



- deit)- is with simple 

: is curious to remem- 

:::e; for, like so many peoples, they 

. time, and having strong family 

;: nations. AccordinsT to it, all 



can — t] 



r it refrard. that tfee sooeretkious 



unkr _ 

rng lie -ir.v i^y..— -. 

traae when be sees i~ 



LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS. 



15 



the inhabitants of the earth were drowned, except one Powaw and his 
wife, who were preserved by cHmbing to the top of the White Moun- 
tains, and who were the progenitors of the subsequent races of man. 
The Powaw took with him a hare, which, upon the subsiding of the 
waters, he freed, as Noah did the dove, seeing in its prolonged absence 
the assurance that he and his companion might safely descend to earth. 
The likeness of this tradition with the story of Deucalion, and Pyrrha, 
his wife, as related by Ovid, is very striking. One does not easily con- 
sent to refer it to accident alone. 

There is one thing more. When asked by the whites to point out 
the Indian's heaven, the savage stretched his arm in the direction of the 
White Hills, and replied that heaven was just beyond. Such being his 
religion, and such the influence of the mountain upon this highly imag- 
inative, poetic, natural man, one finds himself drawn legitimately in the 
train of those marvels which our ancestors considered the most credible 
things in the world, and which the sceptical cannot explain by a sneer. 

According to the Indians, on the highest mountain, suspended from 
a crag overlooking a dismal lake, was an enormous carbuncle, which 
many declared they had seen blazing in the night like a live coal. 
Some even asserted that its ruddy glare lighted the livid rocks around 
like the fire of a midnight encampment, while by day it emitted rays, 
like the sun, dazzling to look upon. And this extraordinary sight thev 
declared they had not only seen, but seen again and again. 

It is true that the Indians did not hesitate to declare that no mortal 
hand could hope to grasp the great fire-stone. It was, said they, in the 
special guardianship of the genius of the mountain, who, on the ap- 
proach of human footsteps, troubled the waters of the lake, causing a 
dark mist to rise, in which the venturesome mortal became bewildered, 
and then hopelessly lost. Several noted conjurers of the Pigwackets, 
rendered foolhardy by their success in exorcising evil spirits, so far con- 
quered their fears as to ascend the mountain ; but they never returned, 
and had, no doubt, expiated their folly by being transformed into stone, 
or flung headlong down some stark and terrible precipice. 

This tale of the great carbuncle fired the imagination of the simple 
settlers to the highest pitch. We believe what we wish to believe, and, 
notwithstanding their religion refused to admit the existence of the In- 
dian demon, its guardian, they seem to have had little difficulty in cred- 
iting the reality of the jewel itself. At any rate, the belief that the 



Il6 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOCXTAIXS. 

mountain sliut up precious mines has come clown to our own day; we 
are assured by a learned historian of fifty years ago that the story of the 
great carbuncle still found full credence in his.' We are now acquainted 
with the spirit of the time when the first attempt to scale the mountain, 
known to us, was rewarded w ith complete success. But the record is ot 
-exasperating brevity. 

Among the earliest settlers of Exeter, New Hampshire, was a man 
by the name of Darby Field. The antecedents of this obscure person- 
age are securely hidden behind the mists of more than two centuries. 

A hundred and twenty -five years before the ascent of Mont Blanc 
by Jacques Balmat, Darby Field successfully ascended to the summit of 
the "White Hill," to-day known as Mount Washington: but the exploit 
of the adventurous Irishman is far more remarkable in its way than that 
of the brave Swiss, since he had to make his way for eighty miles 
through a wilderness inhabited only by beasts of prey, or by human 
beings scarcely less savage, before he reached the foot of the great 
range ; while Balmat lived under the very shadow of the monarch of 
the Alps, so that its spectre was forever crossing his path. Further- 
more, the greater part of the ascent of Mont Blanc was already familiar 
ground to the guides and chamois-hunters of the Swiss Alps. On the 
contrary, according to every probability. Field was the first human 
being whose daring foot invaded the hitherto in\iolable seclusion of the 
illustrious hermit of New England. 

For such an adventure one instinctively seeks a motive. I did not 
long amuse myself with the idea that this explorer climbed merely for 
the sake of climbing; and I have little notion that he dreamed of post- 
humous renown. It is far more probable that the reports brought by 
the Indians of the fabulous treasures of the mountains led to Field's 
long, arduous, and really perilous journey. It is certain that he was pos- 
sessed of rare intrepidity, as well as the true craving for adventure. 
That goes without saying; still, the whole undertaking — its inception, 
its pursuit to the end in the face of extraordinary obstacles, which he 
had no means of measuring or anticipating — announces a very different 
sort of man from the ordinary, a purpose before which all dangers dis- 
appear. 

In June, 1642, that is to sa}-, only twelve years after the Puritan set- 

' Sullivan : " History of Maine." 



LEGENDS OE TIIK CRVSTAJ. HILLS. \\~ 

tlements in Massachusetts Bay, Field set out from the sea-coast for the 

White Hills. 

So far as known, he prosecuted his journey to the Indian, village ot 
Picrwacket, the existence of which is thus established, without note- 
worthy accident or adventure. Here he was joined by some Indians, 
who conducted him within eight miles of the summit, when, declaring 
that to go farther would expose them to the wrath of their great Evil 
Spirit they halted, and refused to proceed. The brave Irishman was 
equal to the emergency. To turn back, baffled, within sight of his goal 
was evidently not an admitted contingency. Leaving the Indians, there- 
fore squatted upon the rocks, and no doubt regarding him as a man 
rushing upon a fool's fate. Field again resolutely faced the mountain, 
when, seeing him equally unmoved by their warnings as unshaken in his 
determination to reach the summit, two of the boldest warriors ran after 
him while the others stoically made their preparations to await a return 
which they never expected to take place. They watched the retreating 
figures until lost among the rocks. 

° In the language of the original narration, the rest of the ascent was 
effected by " a ridge between two valleys filled with snow, out of which 
came two branches of the Saco River, which met at the foot of the hill, 
where was an Indian town of two hundred people." ..." By -the -way, 
amoncr the rocks, there were two ponds, one a blackish water, and the 
other ''reddish." ..." Within twelve miles of the top was neither tree nor 
grass, but low savins, which they went upon the top of sometimes." 

The adventurous climber pushed on. Soon he was assailed by thick 
clouds, through which he and his companions resolutely toiled upward. 
This slow and labored progress through entangling mists continued until 
within four miles of the summit, when Field emerged above them into 
a reo-ion of intense cold. Surmounting the immense pile of shattered 
rocks which constitute the spire, he at last stood upon the unclouded 
summit, with its vast landscape outspread beneath him, and the air so 
clear that the sea seemed not more than twenty miles distant. No 
doubt the daring explorer experienced all the triumph natural to his suc- 
cessful achievement. It is not difficult to imagine the exultation with 
which he planted his audacious foot upon the topmost crag, for, like 
Columbus, Cabot, Balboa, he, too, was a real discoverer. 'I he Indians 
must have regarded him, who thus scornfully braved the vengeance of 
their god of terrors, as something more than man. I have often pict- 



IlS THE HEART OF THE WHITE M O L' X T A I X S . 

ured him standing there, proudly erect, while the wonder-struck savages 
crouched humbly at his feet. Both, in their way, felt the presence of 
their God ; but the white man would confront his as an equal, while the 
savage adored with his face in the dust. 

The three men, after their first emotion of ecstasv, amazement, or 
fear, looked about them. For the moment the great carbuncle was for- 
gotten. Field had chosen the best month of the twelve for his attempt, 
and now saw a vast and unknown region stretching away on the north 
and east to the shores of what he took for seas, but what were reallv 
only seas of vapor, heaped against the farthest horizons. He fancied he 
saw a great water to the north, which he judged to be a hundred miles 
broad, for no land was beyond it. He thought he descried the great 
Gulf of Canada to the east, and in the west the great lake out of which 
the river of Canada came. All these illusions are sufficiently familiar to 
mountain explorers ; and it must not be forgotten that in Field's day 
geographical knowledge of the interior of the countr}- was indeed lim- 
ited. In fact, he must have brought back with him the first accurate 
knowledge respecting the sources of those rivers flowing from the east- 
ern slopes of the mountains. The great gulf on the north side of 
Mount Washington is truly declared to be such a precipice that they 
could scarce discern to the bottom ; the great northern wilderness as 
" daunting terrible," and clothed with " infinite thick woods." Such is its 
aspect to-day. 

The day must have been so far spent that Field had but little time 
in which to prosecute his search. He, however, found " store of Muscow 
glass " and some cr}Stals, which, supposing them to be diamonds, he care- 
fully secured and brought away. These glittering masses, congealed, ac- 
cording to popular belief, like ice on the frozen regions of the moun- 
tains, gave them the name of the Crystal Hills — a name the most poetic, 
the most suggestive, and the most fitting that has been applied to the 
highest summits since the day they were first discovered by Englishmen. 

Descending the mountain. Field rejoined his Indians, who were 
doubtless much astonished to see him return to them safe and sound ; 
for, while he had been making the ascent, a furious tempest, sent, as 
these savages believed, to destrov the rash pale -face and his equally 
reckless companions, burst upon the mountain. He found them drying 
themselves by a fire of pine-knots ; and, after a short halt, the part}- took 
th^ir wav down the mountain to the Indian village. 



LEGENDS or THE CRYSTAL HILLS. 119 

Before a month elapsed, Field, with five or six companions, made a 
second ascent ; but the gem of inestimable value, by whose light one 
might read at night, continued to elude his pursuit. The search was 
not, however, abandoned. Others continued it. The marvellous story, 
as firmlv believed as ever by the credulous, survived, in all its purity, 
to our own century, to be finally transmitted to immortality by Haw- 
thorne's tale of " The Great Carbuncle." It may be said here that 
great influence was formerly attributed to this stone, which the learned 
in alchemv believed prevailed against the dangers of infection, and was 
a sure talisman to preserve its owner from peril by sea or by land. 

A tradition is ten times a tradition when it has a fixed locality. 
Without this it is a myth, a mere vagabond of a tradition. Knowing 
this, I .searched diligently for the spot where the great carbuncle, like the 
eye of a Cyclop, shed its red lustre far down the valley of the Saco; and 
if the little mountain tarn to-day known as Hermit Lake, over which the 
gaunt crags rise in austere grandeur, be not the place, then I am per- 
suaded that further seeking would be unavailing. I cannot go so far as 
to say that it never existed. 

What seems passing strange is that the feat performed by Field,' the 
fame of which spread throughout the colony, should have been nearly, if 
not wholly, forgotten before the lapse of a century. Robert Rogers, one 
of the most celebrated hunters of the White Mountains, subsequently a 
renowned partisan leader in the French and Indian wars, uses the fol- 
lowing language concerning them : 

" I cannot learn that any person was ever on the top of these moun- 
tains. I have been told by the Indians that they have often attempted 
it in vain, by reason of the change of air they met with, which I am 
inclined to believe, having ascended them myself 'til the alteration of air 
was very perceptible ; and even then I had not advanced half way up ; 
the valleys below were then concealed from view by clouds." 

It is not precisely known when or how these granite peaks took the 
name of the White Mountains. We find them so designated in 1672 
by Josselyn, who himself performed the feat of ascending the highest 



' Field's second ascension (July, 1642) was followed in the same year by that of Vines and 
Gorges, two magistrates of Sir F. Gorges's province of Maine, within which the mountains 
were believed to lie. Their visit contributed little to the knowledge of the region, as they er- 
roneously reported the high plateau of the great chain to be the source of the Kennebec, as 
well as of the Androscoggin and Connecticut rivers. 



I20 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

summit, of which a brief record is found in his " New England's Rari- 
ties." One cannot help saying of this book that either the author was a 
liar of the first magnitude, or else we ha\e to regret the degeneracy of 
Nature, exhausted by her long travail ; for this narrator gravely tells us 
of frogs which were as big as a child of a year old, and of poisonous ser- 
pents which the Indians caught with their bare hands, and ate alive with 
great gusto. These are rarities indeed. 

The first mention I have met with of an Indian name for the White 
Mountains is in the narrative of John Gyless captivity, printed in Bos- 
ton in 1736, saying: 

" These White Hills, at the head of Penobscot River, are by the In- 
dians said to be much higher than those called Agiockochook,' above 
Saco." 

The similitude between the names White Mountains and Mont 
Blanc suggests the same idea, that color, rather than character, makes 
the first and strongest impression upon the beholder. Thus we have 
White Mountains and Green Mountains, Red Mountains and Black 
Mountains, the world over. The eye seizes a color before the mind fixes 
upon a distinctive feature, or the imagination a resemblance. It is 
stated, on the authority of Schoolcraft, that the Algonquins called these 
summits " White Rocks." Mariners, approaching from the open sea, 
descried what seemed a cloud -bank, rising from the landward horizon, 
when twenty leagues from the nearest coast, and before any other land 
was visible from the mast-head. Thirty leagues distant in a direct line, 
in a clear midsummer day, the distant summits appeared of a pearly 



' It also occurs, reduced to Agiochook, in the ballad, of unknown origin, on the death of 
Captain Lovewell. One of these was, doubtless, the authority of Belknap. Touching the signifi- 
cation of .Agiochook, it is the opinion of Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull that the word which Cap- 
tain Gyles imperfectly translated from sound into English syllables is Algonquin for "at the 
mountains on that side," or "over yonder." "As to the generally received interpretations of 
Agiockochook, such as 'the abode of the Great Spirit,' 'the place of the Spirit of the Great 
Forest,' or, as one writer prefers, ' the place of the Storm Spirit," " says Dr. Trumbull. " it is 
enough to say that no element of any Algonkin word meaning 'great,' 'spirit,' 'forest,' 'storm,' 
or 'abode,' or combining the meaning of any two of these words, occurs in 'Agiockochook.' 
The only Indian name for the White Hills that bears internal evidence of genuineness is one 
given on the authority of President Alden, as used ' by one of the eastern tribes,' that is, 
Waumbekketmethna, which easily resolves itself into the Kennebec - Abnaki waubcghiket- 
amadinar, ' white greatest mountain.' It is very probable, however, that this synthesis is a 
mere translation, by an Indian, of the English ' White Mountains.' I have never, myself, suc- 
ceeded in obtaining this name from the modern Abnakis." 



LEGENDS OF THE CRYSTAL HILLS. 121 

whiteness; observed again from a church steeple on the sea-coast, with 
the sky partially overcast, they were whitish -gray, showing that the 
change from blue to white, or to cool tones approximating with white, is 
due to atmospheric conditions. The carlv writers succeed only imper- 
fectly in accounting for this phencnnenon, which for six months of the 
year at least has no connection whatever with the snows that cover the 
highest peaks only from the middle of October to the middle of April, a 
period during which few navigators of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries visited our shores, or, indeed, ventured to put to sea at all.' 



' Here is what Douglass says in his "Summary" (i74S-'53): "The White Hills, or rather 
mountains, inland about seventy miles north from the mouth of Piscataqua Harbor, about 
seven miles west by north from the head of the Pigwoket branch of Saco River; they are 
called white not from their being continually covered with snow, but because they are bald 
atop, producing no trees or brush, and covered with a whitish stone or shingle: these hills 
may be observed at a great distance, and are a considerable guide or direction to the In- 
dians in travelling that country." 

And Robert Rogers ("Account of America." London, 1765) remarks that the White Moun- 
tains were "so called from that appearance which is like snow, consisting, as is generally sup- 
posed, of a white flint, from which the reflection is very brilliant and dazzling." 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE .UOL'XTAIXS. 



II. 

JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY. 

Once more. O inoantains of the North, unveil 

Your brows, and lay joax clondy mantles \sfl — Whittier. 

IT is Petrarch who saj-s, " A journey on foot hath most pleasant com- 
modities ; a man may go at his pleasure ; noae shall stay him, none 
shall carrv- him beyond his wish, none shall trouble him; he hath but 
one labor, the labor of nature, to go." Every true pedestrian ought to 
render full faith to the poet's assertion: and should he chance to ha\-e 
his Laura, he will see her somewhere, or, rather, even.-where, I promise 
him. But that is hb affair. 

There are two wa\"5 of reaching Jackson from North Conway. One 
route leaves the travelled highway a short distance beyond the East 
Branch of the Saco, and ascends Thorn Hill : another diverges from it 
near Glen Station, in Bartlett. The Thorn Hill way is the longer: but, 
as the -i-iews are unsurpassed, I unhesitatingly chose it in preference to 
the easier and shorter road. 

The walk from the Inten.-ale over Thorn Hill gives ravishing back- 
ward glimpses, opening to a full and broad panorama of the Saco mead- 
ows and of the surrounding mountains. Needless to call them by name. 
One might forget names, but the image never. Then, advancing to the 
summit, full upon the charmed eye comes that glorious vision of the 
great mountains, ele\-ated to an immense height, and seeming, in their 
benevolence, to say, " Approach, mortals T Underneath is the village. 

We have left the grand vestibule of the Saco to enter an amphithe- 
atre. Washington, in his snowy toga, occupies the place of high honor. 
Adams flaunts his dainty spire over the Pinkham Notch, at the mon- 
arch's left hand. Then comes an embattled wall, pierced through its 
centre by the immense hollow of the Carter Notch. 



JACK SOX AXD THE ELLIS VALLEY. 123 

Jackson is the ideal mountain village. From Thorn Hill it looked a 
little elysium, with its handful of white houses huddled around its one 
little church spire, like a congregation sitting at the feet of their pastor. 
You perceive neither entrance nor exit, so completely is the deep vale 
shut in by mountains. The streams, that make two veins of silver in 
the green floor, seem vainly seeking a way out. One would think Nature 
had locked the door and thrown away the key. The first stream is the 
Wildcat, coming from the Carter Notch; the second, the Ellis, from the 
Pinkham Notch. They unite just below the village, and, like a forlorn- 
hope, together cut their w^ay out of the mountains. 

Getting down into the village, the high mountains now sink out of 
sight, and I saw only the nearer and less elevated ones immediately sur- 
rounding — on the north, Eagle and Wildcat; on the east. Tin and 
Thorn; on the west. Iron Mountain. The latter has fine, bold cliffs. 
Over its smooth slope I again saw the two great steps of the Giant's 
Stairs, mounting the long ridge which conducts to the great plateau of 
Mount Washington. 

The village has a bright, pleasant look, but is not otherwise remark- 
able in itself. Three hotels, the church, and a score or so of houses, con- 
stitute the central portion. But if the village is small, the township is 
large ; and what is the visitor's astonishment, on opening his eyes some 
fine morning, to see farms and farm-houses scattered along the very sum- 
mit of Thorn Mountain, whence they appear to regard the little world 
below with a lofty disdain. How came they there t is the cjuestion one 
feels inclined to ask; for in this enchanted air he loses the desire, almost 
the faculty, of thinking for himself. The inhabitants of this little colony 
seem to prize their seclusion, and only descend to earth at the call of 
necessity. Their neighbors are the eagles. Surely this is Ullima TInile. 
Alas ! no ; the tax-gatherer mounts even here. 

The people of Jackson are above all anxious for the development of 
the mineral resources of the place. They have iron and tin, and claim 
also the existence of copper and even of gold ores. Yet it is probable 
that the vein most profitable for them, the one most likely to yield satis- 
factory returns, is that on which the summer hotels have been located 
and opened. So far, the mountains refuse to give up the wealth they 
hoard. 

The Wildcat cuts the village in two. It is a perfect highwayman of 
a stream. The \erv air is tremulous with its rush and roar. I halted 




lANT S STAIRS, FROM lllORN MUUN IAIN. 



awhile on the little bridge that spans it, from which, 
looking down the long pathway it makes, I enjoyed a fine retrospect 
of the Moats, and, looking up, saw the torrent come bounding toward 
me. Here it makes a swift descent over granite ledges, clean and fresli 
from constant scrubbing, as the face of a country urchin, and as freckled. 
See how hard every rod of its course is beset by huge hump -backed 
bowlders ! A river in fetters ! 

Just above the bridge the stream plunges, two white streaks of water, 
twenty to thirty feet obliquely down. Now it is dark, now light ; some- 
times tinged a pale enierald, sometimes a rich amber, where it falls down 
in thin sheets. For half a mile the ledges look as if an earthquake had 
ripped them up to make a channel for this tempest of water. It is from 
these ledges, looking down the course of the stream, that Moat Moun- 
tain is so incomparably fine. It stretches itself luxuriously along the 
rich meadows, like a Sybarite upon his couch of velvet, lifting its head 
high enough to embrace the landscape, of which itself is the most attrac- 
tive feature. And the tall pines rise above the framework of forest, as if 
to look at the beautiful mountain, clothed with the light of the morning, 
and reclining with such infinite grace. 

Sprays of trembling foliage droop or stretch themselves out over the 
stream in search of the fine dew it sends up. They seem endea\-oring 
to hide the broad scar made through the forest. The clear sun illumi- 



JACKSON AND THK ELLIS WILLEY. 125 

nates their green leaves, and makes the cool rocks emit a sensible 
warmth. It also illuminates the little fountains of water. Ferns and 
young willows shoot from crevices, delicate mosses attach themselves to 
the grim bowlders. I found the perfect print of a human foot sunk in 
the hardest rock ; also cavities as cleverly rounded as if pebbles had 
been taken from the granite. On the banks, under the thick shade of 
the pines, I gathered a handful of the showy pappoose flower, the green 
leaves of which are edible. Little mauve butterflies fluttered at our 
knees like violets blown about by the wind. 

The crest of the fall is split, and broken up in huge fragments. The 
main stream gains an outlet by a deep channel it has cut in the rock; 
then turns a mill ; then shoots down the face of the ledge. Above the 
high ledge the bed of the ri\-er widens to about two hundred feet. 
Higher up, where it is broken in long regular steps over which fifty 
cascades tumble, I thought it most beautiful. 

Besides Jackson Falls, so called, there is a fine cataract on the Ellis, 
known as Goodrich Falls. This is a mile and a half out of the village, 
where the Conway road passes the Ellis by a bridge ; and, being directly, 
upon the high-road, is one of the best known. The river here sud- 
denly pours its whole volume over a precipice eighty feet high, mak- 
ing tlie earth tremble with the shock. I made my way down the steejj 
bank to the bed of the river below the fall, from which I saw, first, the 
curling wave, large, regular, and glass}*, of the dam, then three wild and 
foaming pitches of broken water, with detached cascades gushing out 
from the rocks at the right — all falling heavily into the eddying pool 
below. Where the water was not white, or filliped into fine spray, it was 
the color of pale sherry, and opaque, gradually changing to amber gold 
as the light penetrated it and the descending sheet of the fall grew thin- 
ner. The full tide of the ri\-er showed the fall to the best possible ad- 
vantage. But spring is the season of cascades— the only season when 
one is sure of seeing them at all. 

One gets strongly attached to such a stream as the Ellis. If it has 
been his only comrade for weeks, as it has been mine, the liking grows 
stronger every day — the sense of companionship is full and complete: 
the river is so voluble, so vivacious, so full of noisy chatter. If you are 
dull, it rouses and lifts you out of yourself ; if gay, it is as gay as you. 
Besides, there is the paradox that, notwithstanding you may be going 
in different directions, it never leaves vou for a single moment. One 



126 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOL'XTAINS. 




*^^*-», 



MOAT ilOLMAIN, FROM JACKSON' KALLb. 



talks as it runs, one listens as he walks. A secret, an indefinable sym- 
pathy springs up. You are no longer alone. 

Among other stories that the river told me was the following: 
Once, while on their way to Canada through these mountains, a war- 
party of Indians, fresh from a successful forray on the sea -coast, halted 
with their prisoners on the banks of a stream whose waters stopped 
their way. For weeks these miserable captives had toiled through track- 
less forests, through swollen and angry torrents, sometimes climbing 



JACKSOJV AXD THE ELLIS I ALLEY. 127 

mountains on their hands and knees — they were so steep — and at nii^jht 
stretching their aching limbs on the cold ground, with no other roof than 
the heavens.' 

The captives were a mother, with her new-born babe, scarcely four- 
teen days old, her boy of six, her two daughters of fourteen and sixteen 
years, and her maid. Two of her little flock were missing. One little 
prattler was playing at her knee, and another in the orchard, when thir- 
teen red devils burst in the door of their happy home. Two cruel 
strokes of the axe stretched them lifeless in their blood before her fren- 
zied eyes. One was killed to intimidate, the other was despatched be- 
cause he was afraid, and cried out to his mother. There was no time 
for tears — none even for a parting kiss. Think of that, mothers of the 
nineteenth century ! The tragedy finished, the hapless survivors were 
hurried from the house into the woods. There was no resistance. The 
blow fell like a stroke of lightning from a clear sky. 

• This mother, whose eyes never left the embroidered belt of the chief, 
where the reeking scalps of her murdered babes hung; this mother, who 
had tasted the agony of death from hour to hour, and whose incompa- 
rable courage not only supported her own weak frame, but had so far 
miraculously preserved the lives of her little ones, now stood shivering 
on the shores of the swollen torrent with her babe in her arms, and hold- 
ing her little boy by the hand. In rags, bleeding, and almost famished, 
her misery should have melted a heart of stone. But she well knew the 
mercy of her masters. When fainting, they had goaded her on with 
blows, or, making a gesture as if to snatch her little one from her arms, 
significantly grasped their tomahawks. Hope was gone ; but the moth- 
er's instinct was not 3'et extinguished in that heroic breast. 

But at this moment of sorrow and despair, what was her amazement 
to hear the Indians accost her daughter Sarah, and command her to 
sing them a song. What mysterious chord had the wild, flowing river 
touched in those savage breasts '^ The girl prepared to obey, and the 
Indians to listen. In the heart of these vast solitudes, which never 
before echoed to a human voice, the heroic English maiden chanted to 
the plaintive refrain of the river the sublime words of the Psalmist : 

" By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we 
remembered Zion. 

' Captivity of Elizabeth Hanson, taken at Dover, New Hampshire, 1724. 



128 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

" We hanged our Iiarps upon the willows in the midst thereof. 

"For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; 
and they that wasted us required of us mirth." 

As she sung, the poor girl's voice trembled and her eyes filled, but 
she never once looked toward her mother. 

When the last notes of the singer's voice died away, the bloodiest 
devil, he who murdered the children, took the babe gently from the 
mother, without a word; another lifted her bivrden to his own shoulder; 
another, the little boy; when the whole company entered the river. 

Gentlemen, metaphysicians, explain that scene, if you please : it is no 
romance. 

As this tale plunged me in a train of sombre reflection, the river re- 
counted one of those marvellous legends which contain more poetry 
than superstition, and which here seem so appropriate. 

According to the legend, a family living at the foot of a lofty peak 
had a daughter more beautiful than any maiden of the tribe, possessing 
a mind elevated far above the common order, and as accomplished as 
beautiful. When she reached a proper age, her parents looked around 
them for a suitable match, but in vain. None of the young men of the 
tribe were worthy of so peerless a creature. Suddenly this lovely wild- 
flower of the mountains disappeared. Diligent was the search, and loud 
the lamentations when no trace of her light moccasin could be found in 
forest or glade. The tribe mourned her as lost. But one day some hunt- 
ers, who had penetrated into the fastnesses of the mountain, discovered 
the lost maiden disporting herself in the limpid waters of a stream with 
a beautiful vouth, whose hair, like her own, flowed dowm below his waist. 
On the approach of the intruders, the youthful bathers vanished from 
sight. The relatives of the maiden recognized her companion as one of 
the kind spirits of the mountain, and henceforth looked upon him as 
their son. They called upon him for moose, bear, or whatever creature 
they desired, and had only to go to the water-side and signify their de- 
sire, when, behold ! the animal came swimming toward them. This 
legend strongly reminded me of one of those marvellous fables of the 
Hartz, in which a princess of e.xceeding beauty, destroyed by the arts of 
a wicked fairy, was often seen bathing in the river Use. If she met a 
traveller, she conducted him into the interior of the mountain and loaded 
him with riches. Each legend dimly conveys its idea of the wealth be- 
lieved to reside in the mountain itself. 



JACKSON AXD THE ELLIS VALLEY. 129 

The Ellis continues to guide us farther and farther into the moun- 
tains. If we turn in the direction of the Glen House, a mile out of the 
village the Giant's Stairs come finely into view, and are held for some 
distance. Then bewitching vistas of Mount Washington, with snow 
decorating his huge sides, rise and sink, appear and disappear, until we 
reach an open vale, where the stream is spanned by a rude bridge. The 
route offers nothing more striking in its way than the view of the Pink- 
ham Notch, which lies open at this point. 

One of my walks extending as far as the last house on this road, per- 
mitted me to gratify a strong desire to see something of the in-door life 
of the poorer class of farmers. That desire was fully satisfied. There 
was nothing remarkable about the house itself ; but the room in which I 
rested would ha\'e furnished Meyer von Bremen a capital subject for one 
of his characteristic interiors — it carried me back a century at least. In 
one corner a woman upward of seventy, I should say, sat at a spinning- 
wheel. She rose, got my bread-and-milk, and then resumed her spinning. 
A young mother, with a babe in her lap and two tow-headed urchins at 
her knee, occupied a high-backed rocking-chair. To judge from appear- 
ances, the river which flowed by the door was completely forgotten. 
Her efforts to hush the babe being interrupted by the peevish whining 
of one of the brats, she dealt him a sound box on the ear, upon which 
the whole pack howled in unison, while the mother, very red with the 
effect of her own anger, dragged the culprit from the room. There was 
still another occupant, a young girl, so silently plying her needle that I 
did not at first notice her. The floor was bare. A rickety chair or 
two and a cradle finished the meagre inventory of the apartment. The 
general appearance of things was untidy and unthrifty, rather than 
squalid ; but I could not help recalling Sir William Davenant's remark, 
" that those tenants never get much furniture who begin with a cradle." 

In such rambles, romantic and picturesque, in such dreams, the time 
runs away. The weeks are long days, the days moments. Every one 
asks himself why he finds Jackson so enticing, but no one is able to 
answer the question. Cui bono? When I am happy, shall I make 
myself miserable searching for the reason } Not if I know it. 

Like bees to the sweetest flowers, the artists alight on the choicest 
bits of scenery by instinct. One runs across their umbrellas almost 
everywhere, spread like gigantic mushrooms ; but some of them seem 
only to live and have their true artistic being here. In general, they are 

•9 



130 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

gentle, unobtrusive, and rather subdued in the presence of their beloved 
mountains. Some among them, however, develop actual rapacity in 
the search for new subjects, as, with a pencil between their teeth, they 
creep in ambush to surprise and carry off some mountain beauty which 
you or I are to ransom. Does a traveller contemplate some arduous 
exploration in an unvisited region .■' the artist knocks him over by 
quietly remarking, " I camped there several days last year." 

In France they maintain that high mountains cannot be painted. 
Consequently, the modern French landscape is almost always a dead 
level ; an illimitable plain, through which a placid stream cjuietly mean- 
ders, with a thick wood of aged trees at the left, a snug hamlet in the 
middle distance, some shrubbery on the right, and a climisy ox-cart with 
peasants, in the foreground. All these details are sufficiently common- 
place ; but they appeal strongly to our human yearning for a life of per- 
fect peace — a sanctuary the world cannot enter. Turner knew that he 
must paint a mountain with its head in the clouds, and its feet plunged 
in unfathomable abysses. Imagination would do the rest, and imagina- 
tion governs the universe. 

Photography cannot reproduce the true relation of distant mountains 
to the landscape. The highest summits look like hills. For want of 
color, too, it is always twilight. Even running water has a frozen look, 
and rocks emit a dead, sepulchral glare. But for details — every leaf of 
the tree, or shadow of the leaf — it is faultless; it is the thing itself. 
True, under the magnifying-glass the foliage looks crisped, as is noticed 
after a first frost. In short, the photograph of mountain scenery is like 
that of a friend taken in his cofifin. We say with a shiver that is he, but, 
alas, how changed I A body without a soul. Again, photography can- 
not suggest movement. Perfect immobility is a condition indispensable 
to a successful picture. A successful picture ! A petrified landscape ! 

" In the morning to the mountain," says the proverb, as emblematic 
of high hopes. For two stations embodying the best features the vicin- 
ity of Jackson can offer, the crest of Thorn Mountain and the ledges 
above Fernalds Farm are strongly commended to every sojourner. 
Both are easily reached. On the first, you are a child lifted above the 
crowd on the shoulders of a giant ; the mountains have come to you. 
On the second, you have taken the best possible position to study the 
form and structure of Mount Washington. You see all the ravines, and 
can count all the gigantic feelers the immense mountain throws down 



JACKSON AND THE ELLIS VALLEY. 131 

into the gorge of the ElHs. In this way, step by step, we continue to 
master the topography of the region visited as we take our chocolate, 
one sip at a time. 

I prepared to continue my journey to the Glen House by the valley 
of the Wildcat and the Carter Notch, which is a sort of side entrance to 
the Peabody Valley. Two passes thus lie on alternate sides of the same 
mountain chain. Before doing so, however, two words are necessary. 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



III. 

THE CARTER NOTCH. 

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs 
No school of long experience, that the world 
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares. 
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 
And view the haunts of nature. — Bryant. 

WHAT traveller can pass beyond the crest of Thorn Hill without 
paying his tribute of silent admiration to the splendid pageant of 
mountains visible from this charmed spot ! Before him the great ram- 
part, bristling with its countless towers, is breached as cleanly as if a can- 
non-ball had just crashed through it. It is an immense hole; it is 
the cavity from which, apparently, one of those great iron teeth has just 
been extracted. Only it does not disfigure the landscape. Far from 
it. It really exalts the surrounding peaks. They are enormously ag- 
grandized by it. You look around for a mountain of proper size and 
shape to fill it. That gives the true idea. It is a mountainous hole. 

The little river, tumbling step by step down its broken ledges into 
Jackson, comes direct from the Notch, and its stream is the thread 
which conducts through the labyrinth of thick woods. I dearly love 
the companionship of these mountain streams. They are the voices of 
the wilderness, singing high or low, softly humming a melodious refrain 
to your thoughts, or, joining innumerable cascades in one grand chorus, 
they salute the ear with a gush of sound that strips the forest of its 
loneliness and awe. This same madcap Wildcat runs shouting and hal- 
looing through the woods like a stream possessed. 

By half-past seven of a bright and crisp morning I was climbing the 
steep hill -side over which Jackson Falls pour down. Here was a gen- 
uine surprise. On arriving at the top, instead of entering a difficult and 



THE CARTER XOTCH. 133 

confined gorge, I found a charming and tolerably wide vale, dotted with 
farms, extending far up into the midst of the mountains. You hardly 
realize that the stream flowing so demurely along the bottom of the 
valley is the same making its entry into the village with such noise and 
tumult. Half a mile above the falls the snowy cupola of Washington 
showed itself over Eagle Mountain for a few moments. Then, farther 
on, Adams was seen, also white with snow. For five miles the road 
skirts the western slopes of the valley, which grows continually deeper, 
narrower, and higher. Spruce Mountain is now on our left, the broad 
flanks of Black Mountain occupy the right side of the valley. Beyond 
Black Mountain Carter Dome lifts its ponderous mass, and between 
them the dip of the Perkins Notch, dividing the two ranges, gives ad- 
mittance to the Wild River Valley, and to the Androscoggin, in Shel- 
burne. Before me the grand, downward curves of Carter Notch opened 
wider and wider. 

I picked up, en route, the guide of this locality, who lives on the side 
of the mountain near where the road is left for the woods. Our busi- 
ness was transacted in two words. While he was strapping on his 
knapsack I had leisure to observe the manner of man he was. 

The guide, whose Christian name is Jonathan, is known in all the 
country round as "Jock" Davis. He was a medium-sized, muscular 
man, whiskered to his eyes, with a pair of bare arms the color of un- 
glazed earthen -ware, and a step like a panther. As he strode silently 
on before, with his dog at his heels, I was reminded of the Jibenainosay 
and his inseparable Little Peter. He was steady as a clock, careful, and 
a capital forester, but a trifle taciturn. From time to time, as he drew 
my attention to the things noticeable or interesting by the way, his face 
grew animated, and his eyes sparkled. By the same token I believed I 
detected that dormant perception of beauty and grandeur which is in- 
born, and which travellers are in general too much disposed to deny 
any existence among the natives of these mountains. It is true, one 
cannot express his feelings with the vivacity of the other ; but if there 
is such a thing as speech in silence, the honest guides looks spoke 
volumes. 

He told me that he was accustomed to get his own living in the 
woods, like an old beai*. He had trapped and gummed all through the 
region we were in ; the slopes of the great range, and the Wild River 
wilderness, which he declared, with a shake of the head, to be " a horrid 



134 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 




THE CARTER NOTCH. 



hole." Now and 
tlien, without halt- 
ing, lie took a step to the right 
or left to look into his fox and 
sable traps, set near the foot- 
path. When he spoke of " gumming " on Wildcat Mountain, I was 
near making an awkward mistake; I understood him to say "gunning." 
So I very innocently asked what he had bagged. He opened his eyes 
widely and replied, " Gum."' 



' No Yankee girl need be told for what purpose spruce gum is procured ; but it will doubt- 
less be news to many that the best quality is worth a dollar the pound. Davis told me he had 
gathered enough in a single season to fetch ninety dollars. 



THE CARTER NOTCH. 135 

Seeing me ready, Davis whistled to his dog, and we entered the log- 
ging-road in Indian file. We at once took a brisk pace, which in a short 
time brought us to the edge of a clearing, now badly overgrown with 
bramble and coppice, and showing how easily nature obliterates the 
mark of civilization when left alone. In this clearing an old cellar told 
its sad story but too plainly. Those pioneers who first struck the axe 
into the noble pines here are all gone. They abandoned in consterna- 
tion the effort to wring a scanty subsistence from this inhospitable and 
unfruitful region. Even the poor farms I had seen encroaching upon 
the skirts of this wilderness seemed fighting in retreat. 

We quickly came to a second opening, where the axe of God had 
smote the forest still more ruthlessly than that of man. The ground 
was encumbered with half-burnt trees, among which the gaudy fire-weed 
grew rank and tall. Divining my thought, the guide explained in his 
quaint, sententious way, " Fire went through it ; then the wind harri- 
caned it down." A comprehensive sweep of his staff indicated the area 
traversed by the whirlwind of fire and the tornado. This opening dis- 
closed at our left the gray cliffs and yawning aperture of the Notch — by 
far the most satisfactory view yet obtained, and the nearest. 

Burying ourselves in deeper solitudes, broken only by the hound in 
full cry after a fox or a rabbit, we descended to the banks of the Wild- 
cat at a point one and a half miles from the road we had left. We then 
crossed the rude bridge of logs, keeping company with the gradually 
diminishing river, now upon one bank, now on the other, making a 
gradual ascent along with it, frequently pausing in mid-stream to glance 
up and down through the beautiful vistas it has cut through the trees. 
Halt at the third crossing, traveller, and take in the long course through 
the avenue of black, moss -draped firs! one so sombre and austere, the 
other gliding so bright and blithesome out of its shadow and gloom. 
Just above this spot a succession of tiny water-falls comes like a proces- 
sion of nymphs out of an enchanted wood. 

We were now in a colder region. The sparseness of the timber led 
me to look right and left for the stumps of felled trees, but I saw noth- 
ing of the kind. To the rigorous climate and extreme leanness of the 
soil they attribute the scanty, undersized growth. I did not see fifty 
good timber trees along the whole route. Where a large tree had been 
prostrated by the wind, its upturned and matted roots showed a pitiful 
quantity of earth adhering. Finding it impossible to grow downward 



136 THE HEAR!' OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

more than a few poor inches, they spread themselves laterally out to a 
great distance. But the fir, with its flame-shaped point, is a symbol of 
indomitable pluck. You see it standing erect on the top of some huge 
bowlder, which its strong, thick roots clutch like a vulture's talons. How 
came it there .•* Look at those rotting trunks, so beautifully covered 
with the lycopodium and partridge-plum ! The seed of a fir has taken 
root in the bark. A tiny tree is already springing from the rich mould. 
As it grows, its roots grasp whatever offers a support ; and if the decay- 
ing tree has fallen across a bowlder, they strike downward into the soil 
beneath it, and the rock is a prisoner during the lifetime of the tree. 
Its resin protects it from the icy blasts of wanter, and from the alternate 
freezing and thawing of early spring. It is emphatically the tree of the 
mountains. 

An hour and a half of pretty rapid walking brought us to the bottom 
of a steep rise. We were at length come to close quarters with the for- 
midable outworks of Wildcat Mountain. The brook has for some dis- 
tance poured a stream of the purest water over moss of the richest green, 
but now it most mysteriously vanishes from sight. From this point the 
singular rock called the Pulpit is seen overhanging the upper crags of 
the Dome.' 

We drank a cup of delicious water from a spring by the side of the 
path, and, finding direct access forbidden by the towering and misshapen 
mass before us, turned sharply to the left, and attacked the side of Wild- 
cat Mountain. We had now attained an altitude of nearly three thou- 
sand feet above the sea, or two thousand two hundred and fifty above 
the village of Jackson; we were more than a thousand higher than the 
renov;ned Crawford Notch. 

On every side the ground was loaded down with huge gray bowlders, 
so ponderous that it seemed as if the solid earth must give way under 
them. Some looked as if the merest touch would send them crashing 
down the mountain. Undermined by the slow action of time, these frag- 
ments have fallen one by one from the high cliffs, and accumulated at 
the base. Among these the path serpentined for half a mile more, bring- 
ing us at last to the summit of the spur we had been climbing, and to 
the broad entrance of the Notch. We passed quickly over the level 



' I use the name, as usually applied, to the whole mountain. In point of fact, the Dome is 
not visible from the Notch. 



THE CARTER NOTCH. 137 

ground we were upon, stopped by the side of a well-built cabin of bark, 
threw off our loads, and then, fascinated by the exceeding strangeness of 
everything around me, I advanced to the edge of the scrubby growth in 
front of the camp, in order to command an unobstructed view. 

Shall I live long enough to forget this sublime tragedy of nature, 
enacted Heaven knows when or how? How still it was! I seemed to 
have arrived at the instant a death-like silence succeeds the catastrophe. 
I saw only the bare walls of a temple, of which some Samson had just 
overthrown the columns — walls overgrown with a forest, ruins over- 
spread with one struggling for existence. 

Imagine the light of a mid-day sun brightening the tops of the moun- 
tains, while within a sepulchral gloom rendered all objects — rocks, trees, 
cliffs — all the more weird and fantastic. I was between two high moun- 
tains, whose walls enclose the pass. Overhanging it, fifteen hundred 
feet at least, the sunburnt crags of the Dome towered above the highest 
precipices of the mountain behind me. These stately barriers, at once 
so noble and imposing, seemed absolutely indestructible. Impossible 
to conceive anything more enduring than this imperishable rock. So 
long as the world stands, those mountains will stand. And nothing can 
shake this conviction. They look so strong, so confident in their 
strength, so incapable of change. 

But what, then, is this dusky gray mass, stretching huge and irregu- 
lar across the chasm from mountain to mountain, completely filling the 
space between, and so effectually blockading the entrance that we were 
compelled to pick our way up the steep side of the mountain in order to 
turn it .? 

Picture to yourself acres upon acres of naked granite, split and splin- 
tered in every conceivable form, of enormous size and weight, yet pitch- 
ed, piled, and tumbled about like playthings, tilted, or so poised and bal- 
anced as to open numberless caves, which sprinkled the whole area with 
a thousand shadows — figure this, I repeat, to yourself — and the mind will 
then grasp but faintly the idea of this colossal barricade, seemingly built 
by the giants of old to guard their last stronghold from all intrusion. At 
some distance in front of me a rock of prodigious size, very closely re- 
sembling the gable of a house, thrusting itself half out, conveyed its hor- 
rible suggestion of an avalanche in the act of ingulfing a hamlet. And 
all this one beholds in a kind of stupefaction. 

Whence came this colossal debris .^ I had at first the idea that the 

20 



138 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

great arch, springing from peak to pcaL:, supported on the Atlantean 
shoulders of the two mountains, had fallen in ruins. I even tried to 
imagine the terrific crash with which heaven and earth came together 
in the fall. Easy to realize here Schiller's graphic description of the 
Jungfrau : 

" One walks there between life and death. Two threatening peaks 
shut in the solitary way. Pass over this place of terror without noise; 
dread lest you awaken the sleeping a\'alanche." 

It is evident, however, as soon as the eye attaches itself to the side 
of the Dome, that one of its loftiest precipices, originally measuring an 
altitude as great as any yet remaining, has precipitated itself in a 
crushed and broken mass into the abyss. Nothing is left of the primi- 
tive edifice except these ruins. It is easily conceived that, previous to 
the convulsion, the interior aspect of the Notch was quite different from 
what is seen to-day. It was doubtless narrower, gloomier, and deeper 
before the cliff became dislodged. The track of the convulsion is easily 
traced. From top to bottom the side of the mountain is hollowed out, 
exposing a shallow ravine, in which nothing but dwarf spruces will grow, 
and in which the erratic rocks, arrested here and there in their fall, seem 
endeavoring to regain their ancient position on the summit. There is 
no trace whatever of the rubbish ordinarily accompanying a slide — only 
these rocks. 

Seeing that all this happened long ago, I asked the guide why the 
larger growth we saw on both sides of the hollow had not succeeded in 
covering the old scar, as is the case with the Willey Slide; but he was 
unable to advance even a conjecture. The spruce, however, loves ruins, 
spreading itself out over them with avidity. 

We felt our way cautiously and slowly out over the bowlders; for the 
moment one cjuits the usual track he risks falling headlong upon the 
sharp rocks beneath. In the midst of these grisly blocks stunted firs 
are born, and die for want of sustenance, making the dreary waste bristle 
with hard and horny skeletons. The spruce, dwarfed and deformed, has 
established itself solidly in the interstices ; a few bushes spring up in 
the crannies. With this exception, tlie entire area is denuded of vegeta- 
tion. The obstruction is heaped in two principal ridges, traversing its 
greatest breadth, and opening a broad way between. This is one of the 
most curious features I remarked. From a fiat rock on the summit of 
the first we obtained the best idea of the general confifruration of the 



THE CARTER NOTCH. 139 

Notch ; and from this point, also, we saw the two little lakes beneath us 
which are the sources of the Wildcat. Beyond, and above the hollow 
they occupy, the two mountains meet in the low ridge constituting the 
true summit of Carter Notch. Far down, under the bowlders, the Wild- 
cat gropes its way out ; but, notwithstanding one or the other was con- 
tinually dropping out of sight into the caverns with which they are filled, 
we could neither hear nor see anything to indicate its route. It is 
buried out of sight and sound. 

No incident of the whole excursion is more curiously inexplicable 
than the total disappearance of the brook at the mountain's foot. No- 
tice that it was last seen gushing from the side we ascended, half a mile 
below the camp. Whence does it come.' When we were on top of 
the bowlders, looking down on the water of the two little lakes, we won- 
deringly ask, " WHiere does it go .? How does it get out T The mys- 
tery fs, however, solved by the certainty that their waters flow out un- 
derneath the barrier, so that this mammoth pile of debris, which could 
destroy a city, was unable to arrest the flow of a ri\-ulet. 

But all this wreck and ruin exerts a saddening influence ; it seems to 
prefigure the Death of the Mountain. So one gladly turns to the land- 
scape—a very noble though not extensive one— enclosing all the moun- 
tains and valleys to the south of us lying between Kearsarge and Moat. 

After this tour of the rocks, we returned to the hut and ate our 
luncheon. Here the Pulpit Rock, which is sure to catch the eye when- 
ever it wanders to the cliffs opposite, looks very much like the broken 
handle of a jug. Davis explained that, by advancing fifteen or twenty 
paces upon it, it would be possible to hang suspended over the thousand 
feet of space beneath. While thus occupied, the dog received his share 
of the bread and meat; nor was the little tame hawk that came and 
hopped so fearlessly at our feet forgotten. This bird and a cross-bill 
were the only living things I saw.' 



' The guide knew no other name for the larger bird than meat-hawk ; but its size, pkimage, 
and utter fearlessness are characteristic of the Canada jay. occasionally encountered in these 
hi<xh latitudes. I cannot refrain from reminding the reader that the cross-bill is the subject of 
a beautiful German legend, translated by Longfellow. The dying and forsaken Saviour sees a 
little bird striving to draw the nail from his bleeding palm with his beak : 

"And the Saviour spoke in mildness: "And .he bird is cilled the cross-bill ; 

' Blest be thou of all the good! Covered all «ilh blood so clear. 

Bear, as token of this moment, I" the groves of pine it singeth 

.Marks of blood and holy rood ;' Songs like legends, strange to hear " 



I40 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Being fully rested and refreshed, we started on a second exploration 
of the upper part of the Notch. Thus far our examination had been 
confined to the lower portion only. Descending the spur upon which 
the hut is situated, we were, in a few moments, at the bottom of the 
deep cavity lying between the Giants' Barricade and the little mountain 
forming the northern portal. This area is undoubtedly the original floor 
of the pass. We had now reached a position between the lakes. Look- 
ing backward, the barricade lifted a black and frowning wall a hundred 
and fifty feet above our heads. Looking down, the water of the lakes 
seemed "an image of the Dead Sea sleeping at the foot of Jerusalem 
destroyed." While I stood looking into them, a passing cloud, pausing 
in astonishment at seeing itself reflected from these shadowy depths, 
darkened the whole interior. Deprived all at once of sunlight, the scene 
became one of great and magnificent solemnity. The pass assumed the 
appearance of a vast cavern. The ponds lay still and cold below. The 
air grew chill, the water black as ink. The ruddy color faded from the 
cliffs. They became livid. I saw the thousands upon thousands of fir- 
trees, rigid and sombre, ranged tier on tier like spectators in an immense 
circus, who are awaiting the signal for some terrible spectacle to begin. 
When the cloud tranquilly resumed its journey, a load seemed lifted off. 
It was Nature repeating to herself, 

•• Put out the lisht. and then put out tlie light." 

We had reached the camp at half-past ten. At half-past twelve we 
began the ascent of the Dome. It is not so much the height as the 
steepness of this mountain that wins our respect. The path goes 
straight up to the first summit, deflects a little to reach the Pulpit, and 
then, turning more northerly, ascends for a mile and a half more by a 
much easier rise to the highest peak. There are no open ledges on the 
route. The path is cut through a wood from base to summit; and, with 
the exception of a few trees felled to open an outlook in the direction of 
the main range, was covered on the summit itself with a dense growth of 
fir-trees from twelve to fifteen feet high. To obtain a view of the whole 
horizon, it was necessary, at the time of my visit, to climb one of these 
trees. 

I will not fatigue the reader with any detailed account of the ascent. 
Suffice it to say that it was a slow and toilsome lifting of one heavy foot 
after another for three-quarters of an hour. Sometimes the slope was so 



THE CARTER NOTCH. 141 

near the vertical that we could ascend only a few rods at a time. I mi- 
provcd these halts by leaning against a tree, and panting like a doe pur- 
sued by the hunter. Davis threw himself upon the ground and watched 
me attentively, but without speaking. If he expected me to give out, I 
disappointed him by giving the signal to move on. I had already served 
my apprenticeship on Carrigain. It was difficult to maintain an upright 
position. Once, indeed, on looking up, I perceived that the guide had 
abandoned in disgust the idea of walking erect, and was creeping on all- 
fours, like his dog. This breathless scramble continued for three-quar- 
ters of an hour, at the end of which we turned into the short by-path 
conducting to the Pulpit. 

Near the Pulpit is a cleared space large enough to afford standing 
room for fifteen or twenty persons. This Pulpit is a huge, rectangular 
rock, jutting out from the face of the cliff on which we stood, and is 
not at all unworthy of the name given to it by the guide. It is a fine 
station from which to survey the deep rent in the side of the mountain, 
as well as the mammoth stone-heap, which it overlooks. The black side 
of Mount Wildcat, ploughed from top to bottom with four deep gashes, 

■■ The least a death to nature," 

is also seen to excellent advantage across the airy space between the 
mountains. The tiuttering of a handkerchief at the door of the little 
cabin greatly enlivened the solitary scene", and drew from us the same 
signal in return. 

At first sight the ascent by the chasm seems feasible ; but Davis, who 
has twice perf'ormed this difficult feat, declared with a shrug that nothing 
would tempt him to do it again. Those who have ever come to close 
quarters with the shrubby growth of these ruins will know how to leave 
it in undisputed possession of its own chosen ground. The dwarf spruce 
is the Cossack of the woods. 

What a beautiful landscape is that from the Pulpit ! The southern 
horizon is now widely opened. The mountains around Jackson -have 
dwindled to hills. Especially curious are the flattened top and distorted 
contour-lines of Iron Mountain. Another singular feature is the way we 
look through the cloven summit of Doublehead to Kearsarges stately 
pyramid. Here are strips of the Ellis and Saco Valleys, and all of the 
Wildcat. The lakes in Ossipee are dazzling to look upon. Old Cho- 
corua lifts his brilliant spire; then Moat his iron bulwarks. Crawford, 



142 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Resolution, and the Giants' Stairs extend on the right, behind Iron. 
The view is then cut off bv the burly form of Wildcat. Far back in 
the picture are the notched walls of the Franconia and .Sandwich chains, 
topped by pale blue peaks. 

Continuing the ascent for about three-fourths of a mile, we came to 
a point only a rod or two distant from the head of the great slide of 
1S69, and from the top of a tree here was the most thrilling prospect of 
Washington and the great northern peaks I ever beheld. All the sum- 
mits as far south as Monroe are included in the view. 

Over the right shoulder of Wildcat appeared the dazzling summit of 
W^ashington, having at his left the noble cone of Jefferson, the match- 
less shaft of Adams, and the massive pyramid of Madison. Each gray 
head was profusely powdered with snow. Dark clouds, heavily charged 
with frost, partially intercepted the sun's rays, and, enveloping the great 
mountains in their shadows, cast over them a mantle of the deepest 
blue ; but enough light escaped to gild the arid slopes of the great ra- 
vines a rich brown gold, and to pierce through, and beautifully expose, 
against the dark bulk of Adams, a thin veil of slowly falling snow. Im- 
agine an Ethiopian wrapped from head to foot in lace ! 

A chapter could not give the thousand details of this grand picture. 
One devours it with avidity. He sees to the greatest possible advantage 
the magnificent proportions of Washington, with his massive slopes roll- 
ing up and up, like petrified storm-clouds, to the final summit. He sees 
the miles of carriage-road, from where it leaves the woods, as far as the 
great northern plateau. He looks deep down into the depths of Tucker- 
man's and Huntington's ravines, and between them sees Raymond's Cat- 
aract crusting the bare cliffs with a vein of cjuicksilver. The massive 
head-wall of Tuckerman's was freely spattered with fresh snow ; the Lion's 
Head rose stark and forbidding; the upper cliffs of Huntington's, 

" With twenty trenched gashes in his head." 

the great billows of land rushing downward into the dark gulfs, i-esem- 
bled the vortex of a frozen whirlpool. 

But for refinement of form, delicacy of outline, and a predominant, 
inexplicable grace, Adams stands forth here without a rival. Washing- 
ton is the undisputed monarch, but Adams is the highest type of moun- 
tain beauty here. That splendid, slightly concave, antique shaft, rising in 
unconscious symmetry from the shoulders of two supporting mountain- 



THE CARTER NOTCH. 1 43 

peaks, which seem prostrating themselves at its feet, changes tlie emo- 
tion of awe and respect to one of admiration and pleasure. Our eleva- 
tion presented all the great summits in an unrivalled attitude for obser- 
vation or study; and whoever has once beheld them— banded together 
with bonds of adamant, their heads in the snow, and their feet in the 
impenetrable shades of the Great Gulf; with every one of their thou- 
sands of feet under his eye — every line as firm and strong, and every 
contour true as the Great Architect drew it— without loss or abatement ; 
vio-orous in old age as in youth ; monuments of one race, and silent 
spectators of the passing of another; victors in the battle with Time; 
chronicles and retrospect of ages; types of the Everlasting and Un- 
changeable—will often try to summon up the picture of the great peaks, 
and once more marshal their towering battlements before the memory. 

The descent occupied less than half an hour, so rapidly is it made. 
We had nothing whatever to do with regulating our speed, but were 
fully occupied in so placing our feet as to avoid pitching headlong, or 
sitting suddenly down in a miry place. We simply tumbled down the 
mountain, like two rocks detached from its peak. 

After a last survey of the basin of the Notch, from the clearing above 
the upper lake, we crossed the little mountain at its head, taking the 
path leading to the Glen House. We descended the reverse side to- 
gether, to the point where the great slide referred to came thundering 
down from the Dome into the gorge of Nineteen Mile Brook. This 
landslip, which happened October 4th, 1869, was one of the results of 
the disastrous autumnal storms, which deluged the mountains with rain, 
and set in motion here an enormous quantity of wreck and debris. It 
was at this time that Mr. Thompson, the proprietor of the Glen House, 
lost his life in the Peabody River, in a desperate effort to avert the de- 
struction of his mill. 

Here I parted from my guide; and, after threading the woods for two 
hours more, following the valley of Nineteen Mile Brook, came out of 
their shadowy embrace into the stony pastures above the Glen House. 



144 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 



IV. 

THE PIN KM AM NOTCH. 
Levons les yeux vers les saintes montagnes. — Racine. 

THE Glen House is one of the last strongholds of the old ways of 
travel. Jackson is twelve, Randolph seven, and Gorham eight miles 
distant. These are the nearest villages. The nearest farm-houses are 
Copp's, three miles on the road to Randolph, and Emery's, six on the 
road to Jackson. The nearest railway-station is eight miles off, at Gor- 
ham. The nearest steam-whistle is there. So much for its seclusion. 

Being thus isolated, the Glen House is naturally the point of direc- 
tion for the region adjacent. Situated at the base of Carter Mountain, 
on a terrace rising above the Peabody River, which it overlooks, it has 
only the valley of this stream — a half mile of level meadow here — be- 
tween it and the base of Mount Washington. The carriage-road to the 
summit, which, in 1861, superseded the old bridle-path, is seen crossing 
this meadow. This road occupied six years in building, is eight miles 
long, and is as well and solidly built as any similar piece of highway in 
New England. 

When it is a question of this gigantic mass, which here offers such 
an easy mode of ascent, the interest is assured. Respecting the appear- 
ance of IVIount Washington from the Glen House itself, it is a received 
truth that neither the height nor the proportions of a high mountain are 
properly appreciated when the spectator is placed exactly at the base. 
The same is true here of Mount Washington, which is too much fore- 
shortened for a favorable estimate of its grandeur or its elevation. The 
Dome looks flat, elongated, obese. But it is only a step from the hotel 
to more eligible posts of observation, say the clearings on Mount Car- 
ter, or, better still, the slopes of Wildcat, which are easily reached over 
a good path. 



THE PINK HAM NOTCH. 145 

Still, Mount Washington is surveyed with more astonishment, per- 
haps, from this point, than from any other. Its lower section is covered 
with a dense forest, out of which rise the successive and stupendous un- 
dulations culminating at last in the absolutely barren summit, which tJTc 
nearer swells almost conceal. The true peak stands well to the left, indi- 
cated by a white building when the sun is shining, and a dark one when 
it is not. As seen from this spot, the peculiar formation of the mountain 
gives the impression of a semi-fluid mass, first cooled to hardness, then 
receiving successive additions, which, although eternally united with 
its bulk, have left the point of contact forever visible. When the first 
mass cooled, it received a second, a third, and a fourth. One believes, 
so to speak, certain intervals to have elapsed in the process of solidify- 
ing these masses, which seem, to me at least, not risen above the earth, 
but poured down upon it. 

It is related that an Englishman, seated on the balcony of his hotel 
at Chamouni, after having conscientiously followed the peripatetics of a 
sunset, remarked, " Very fine, very fine indeed ! but it is a pity Mont 
Blanc hides the view." In this sense. Mount Washington " hides the 
view " to the west. No peak dares show its head in this direction. 

From the vicinity of the hotel, Wildcat Mountain allows the eye to 
embrace, at the left, Mount Washington as far as Tuckerman's Ravine. 
Only a few miles of the valley can be traced on this side ; but at the 
right it is open for nearly its whole length, fully exposing that magnifi- 
cent sweep of the great northern peaks, here bending majestically to the 
north-east, and exhibiting their titanic props, deep hollows, soaring peaks, 
to the admiring scrutiny of every wayfarer. It is impossible to appre- 
ciate this view all at once. No one can pretend to analyze the sensa- 
tions produced by looking at mountains. The bare thought of them 
causes a flutter of enthusiasm wherever we may be. At such moments 
one lays down the pen to revel in the recollection. 

Among these grandees, Adams looks highest. It is indispensable that 
this mountain should be seen from some higher point. It is only half 
seen from the Glen, although the view here is by far the best to be had 
in any valley enclosing the great chain. Ascend, therefore, even at the 
risk of some toil, one of the adjacent heights, and this superb monument 
will deign to show the true symmetrical relation of summit to base. 

I have already said that most travellers approach this charming 
mountain nook by the Pinkham defile, instead of making their drbut by 

21 



146 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

the Carter Notch. It will be well worth our while to retrace at least so 
much of this route, through the first- named pass, as will enable us to 
gain a knowledge, not so much of what it shows as of what it hides. By 
referring to the chapter on Jackson, we shall then have seen all that can 
be seen on the travelled highway. 

The four miles back through the Pinkham forest deserve to be 
called the Avenue of Cascades. Not less than four drop from the 
mountain tops, or leap down the confined gorges. Let us first walk in 
this direction. 

Two miles from the hotel we meet a sprightly and vigorous brook 
coming down from Wildcat Mountain to swell the Peabody. A short 
walk up this stream brings us to Thompson's Falls, which are several 
pretty cascades slipping down a bed of granite. The ledges over which 
they glide offer a practicable road to the top of the falls, from which is 
a most interesting view into Tuckerman's Ravine, and of the summit of 
Mount Washington. 

Some overpowering, some unexplained fascination about these dark 
and mysterious chambers of the mountain arouses in us a desire strange- 
ly like to that intense craving for a knowledge of futurity itself. We 
think of the Purgatory of the ancients into which we would willingly 
descend if, like Dante holding the hand of Virgil, we might hope to re- 
turn unscathed to earth. " This is nothing but an enormous breach in 
the mo'untain," you say, weakly attempting to throw off the spell by ridi- 
culing the imagination. Be it so. But it has all the terrible suggestive- 
ness of a descent into the world of the dead. When we walk in the 
dark we say that we are afraid of falling. It is a falsehood. We are 
afraid of a Presence. 

That dark curling lip of the south wall, looking as if the eternal ada- 
mant of the hills had been scorched and shrivelled by consuming flame, 
marks the highest curve of the massive granite spur rooted deep in the 
Pinkham defile. It is named Boott's Spur. The sky-line of the ravine's 
head-wall is five thousand feet above the sea, on the great plateau over 
which the Crawford trail passes. That enormous crag, rising like an- 
other Tower of Famine, on the north and east divides the ravine proper 
from the collateral chamber, known as Huntington's, out of which the 
source of the Peabody gushes a swift torrent, and near which the car- 
riage-road w^inds its devious way up to the summit. In the depression 
of this craggy ridge, between the two ravines, sufficient water is collected 



THE PINKHAAI NOTCH. 



H7 



to form tlie beautiful cataract known as Raymond's, which is seen from 
all those elevations commanding the ravine itself. 

The ravine also furnishes a route to the summit of Mount Washing- 
ton in so far that the ascent may be continued from the head of the 
chasm to the high plateau, and so up the pinnacle, by the old Crawford 
trail, or over the crag on the right to the carriage-road ; but it is not to 
be highly recommended on that account, except to strong climbers. It 
should be visited for itself, and for what is to be seen going or returning 
by the different paths. I have also descended from the .Summit House 












HIE EMLRALD TOOL. 



to the ravine and returned by the same route; an excursion growing in 
favor with those tourists having a day or two on their hands, and who 
approach the mountain from the west or opposite side. In that case a 
return to the summit saves a long dt-tour. 

Near the entrance to Thompson's Falls a well-trod path leads to the 
Emerald Pool, which Bierstadt's painting has rendered famous. At first 
one sees only a deep hollow, with a dark and glassy pool at the bottom, 
and a cool light coming down through the high tree -tops. Two large 



14S THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

rocks tightly compress the stream which fills it, so that the water gushes 
out with sufficient force to whiten a little, without disturbing the placid 
repose of the pool. This gives the effect of milk poured upon ink. 
Above these rocks we look up the stony bed of the frantic river and 
meet the blue mass of a distant mountain. Rocks are picturesquely 
dropped about the margin. Upon one side a birch leans far out over 
the basin, whose polished surface brilliantly reflects the white light of 
its bark. One sees the print of foliage on the black water, like that of 
ferns and grasses upon coal ; or, rather, like the most beautiful Italian 
mosaics — black marble inlaid with arabesques of color. The illusion is 
more perfect still when the yellow and scarlet of the maples is reflected, 
as in autumn. 

The contrast between the absolutely quiet pool and the feverish ex- 
citement of the river is singular. It is that of a life : one, serene and un- 
moved, receives the other in its bosom and calms its excitement. It then 
runs out over the pebbles at a steadier pace, soothed, tranquillized, and 
strengthened, to meet its destiny by this one moment of peace and rest. 

Doubtless many turn languidly into this charming sylvan retreat with 
only a dim perception of its beauty. Few go away except to sing its 
praises with heart and tongue. Solitude is here. Repose is here. 
Peace is omnipresent. And, freed from the excitements of city life, 
"Peace at any price" is the cry of him whom care pursues as with a 
knotted scourge. If he find not rest here, 'tis his soul "is poor." For 
him the smell of the earth, the fragrance of the pines, the very stones, 
ha\e healing or strength. He grows drowsy with the lullaby of the brook. 
A delicious languor steals over him. A thousand dreamy fancies float 
through his imagination. He is a child again ; or, rather, he is born 
again. The artificial man drops off. Stocks and bonds are clean for- 
gotten. His step is more clastic, his eye more alert, his heart lighter. 
He departs believing he has read, " Let all who enter here leave care be- 
hind." And all this comes of seeing a little shaded mountain pool con- 
secrated by Nature. He has only experienced her religion and received 
her baptism. 

Burying ourselves deeper in the pass, the trees, stirred by the breeze, 
shake out their foliage like a maiden her long tresses. And the glory of 
one is the glory of the other. We look up to the greater mountains, still 
wrapped in shadows, saying to those whom its beams caress, " Out of 
my sun !" 



THE PINK HAM NOTCH. 



149 



At the third mile 
a guide -board at the 
right announces the 
Crystal Cascade. We 
turn aside here, and, 
entering the wood, 
soon reach the banks 
of a stream. The last 
courtesy this white- 
robed maid makes on 
crossing the threshold 
of her mountain home 
is called the Crystal 
Cascade. It is an 
adieu full of grace and 
feeling. 

The Crystal Cas- 
cade divides with Glen 
Ellis the honor of be- 
ing the most beautiful 
water-fall of the White 
Mountains. And well 
may it claim this dis- 
tinction. These two 
charming and radiant 
sisters have each their 
especial admirers, who 
come in multitudes ev- 
ery year, like pilgrims 
to the shrine of a god- 
dess. In fact, they are 
as unlike as two hu- 
man countenances. Ev- 
ery one is astonished 
at the changes effected 
by simple combinations 
of rocks, trees, and wa- 
ter. One shrinks from 





THt CR\ST\L CVSCAUL 



I50 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

a critical analysis of what appeals so strangely to his human sympathies. 
Indeed, he should possess the language of a Dumas or a Ruskin, the poe- 
try of a Longfellow or a Whittier, the pencil of a Turner or a Church, 
to do justice to this pre-eminently beautiful of cascades. 

Look around. On the right bank of the stream, where a tall birch 
leans its forked branches out over the pool below, a jutting rock em- 
braces in one glance the greater part of the fall. The cliffs, rising on 
both sides, make a most wild and impressive setting. The trees, which 
shade or partly screen it, exclude the light. The ferns and shrubbery 
trace their arabescjues of foliage upon the cold, damp rocks. The sides 
of the mountain, receding into black shadows, seem set with innumer- 
able columns, supporting a roof of dusky leafage. All this combines to 
produce the effect of standing under the vault of some old dimly-lighted 
cathedral — a subdued, a softened feeling. A voice seems whispering, 
" God is here !" 

Through these sombre shades the cascade comes like a gleam of 
light: it redeems the solitude. High up, hundreds of feet up the 
mountain, it boils and foams ; it hardly seems to run. How it turns 
and tosses, and writhes on its hard bed ! The green leaves quiver at its 
struggles. Birds fly silently by. Down, down, and still down over its 
shattered stairs falls the doomed flood, until, lashed and broken into a 
mere feathery cloud, it reaches a narrow gorge between abrupt cliffs of 
o-ranite. A little pellucid basin, half white, half black water, receives it 
in full career. It then flows out by a pretty water-fall of twenty feet 
more. But here, again, the sharp, wedge-shaped cliff, ad\-ancing from the 
opposite bank, compresses its whole volume within a deep and narrow 
trough, through which it flies with the rapidity of light, makes a right 
angle, and goes down the mountain, uttering loud complaints. From 
below, the jagged, sharp -edged cliff forms a kind of vestibule, behind 
which the cascade conceals itself. Behind this, farther back, is a rock, 
perfectly black, and smooth as polished ebony, over which the surplus 
water of the fall spreads a tangled web of antique lace. Some very 
curious work has been going on here since the stream first made its way 
through the countless obstacles it meets in the long miles to its secret 
fountains on Mount Washington. One carries away a delightful impres- 
sion of the Crystal Cascade. To the natural beauty of falling water it 
brings the charm of lawless unrestraint. It scorns the straight and nar- 
row path; has stolen interviews with secret nooks on this side or that; 



THE PINK HAM NOTCH. 151 

is forever coquettishly adjusting its beautiful dishabille. What power 
has taken one of those dazzling clouds, floating over the great summit, 
and pinned it to the mountain side, from which it strives to rise and 
soar away? 

We are now in the wildest depths of the Pinkham defile. The road 
is gloomy enough, edging its way always through a dense wood around 
a spur of Mount Washington, which it closely hugs. Upon reaching 
the summit, thirteen hundred and fifty feet above the Saco, at Bartlett, 
a sign-board showed where to leave the highway, but now the noise of 
the fall coming clearer and clearer was an even surer guide. 

The sense of seclusion is peiiect. Stately pines, funereal cedars, 
sombre hemlocks, throng the banks, as if come to refresh their parched 
foliage with the fine spray ascending from the cataract. This spray 
sparkles in the sun like diamond-dust. Through the thick-set, clean- 
limbed tree-trunks jets of foam can be seen in mad riot along the rocky 
gorge. They leap, toss their heads, and tumble over each other like 
young lambs at play. Backward up the stream, downward beyond the 
fall, we see the same tumult of waters in the midst of statuesque immo- 
bility ; we hear the roar of the fall echoing in the tops of the pines ; we 
feel the dull earth throb with the superabundant energy of the wild 
river. 

Making my way to the rocks above the cataract, I saw the torrent 
swiftly descending in two long, arching billows, flecked with foam, and 
tossing myriad diamonds to the sun. Two large masses of rock, 
loosened from the cliffs that hang over it, have dropped into the stream, 
turning it a little from its ancient course, but only to make it more pict- 
uresque and more tumultuous. On the left of the gorge the rocks are 
richly striped with black, yellow, and purple. The water is crystal clear, 
and cold as ice, having come, in less time than it takes to write, from the 
snows of Tuckermans Ravine. The variegated hues of the rocks, glis- 
tening with spray, of the water itself seizing and imprisoning, like flies 
in amber, every shadow these rocks let fall, the roar of the cataract, make 
a deep and abiding impression of savage force arid beauty. 

But I had not yet seen the fall. Descending by slippery stairs to 
the pool beneath it, I saw, eighty feet above me, the whole stream force 
its way through a narrow cleft, and stand in one unbroken column, su- 
perbly erect, upon the le\'el surface of the pool. The sheet was as white 
as marble, the pool as green as malachite. As if stunned by the fall, it 



152 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

turns slowly round; then, recovering, precipitates itself down tiie rocky 
gorge with greater passion than ever. 

On its upper edge the curling sheet of the fall was shot with sun- 
light, and shone with enchanting brilliancy. All below was one white, 
feathery mass, gliding down with the swift and noiseless movement of an 
avalanche of fresh snow. No sound until the moment of contact with 
the submerged rocks beneath ; then it finds a voice that shakes the 
hoary forest to its centre. How this exquisite white thing fascinates ! 
One has almost to tear himself away from the spot. Undine seems 
beckoning us to descend with her into the crystal grottoes of the pool. 
From the tender dalliance of a sunbeam with the glittering mists con- 
stantly ascending was born a pale Iris. Exquisitely its evanescent hues 
decorated the virgin drapery of the fall. Within these mists two airy 
forms sometimes discover themselves, hand-in-hand. 

The story runs that the daughter of a sagamore inhabiting the little 
vale, now Jackson, was secretly wooed and won by a young brave of an- 
other and neighboring tribe. But the haughty old chief destined her for 
a renowned warrior of his own band. Mustering his friends, the pre- 
ferred lover presented himself in the village, and, according to Indian 
usage, laying 

••—at hur talhor's feet that night 
His softest furs and wampum white," 

demanded his bride. The alliance was too honorable to permit an 
abrupt refusal. Smothering his wrath, the father assembled his braves. 
The matter was debated in solemn council. It was determined that the 
rivals should settle their dispute by a trial of skill, the winner to carry 
off the beautiful prize. A mark was set up, the ground carefully meas- 
ured, and the two warriors took their respective places in the midst of 
the assembled tribe. The heart of the Indian maiden beat with hope 
when her lover sent his arrow quivering in the edge of the target ; but 
it sunk when his rival, stepping scornfully to his place, shot within the 
very centre. A shout of triumph rew-arded the skill of the victor; but 
before it died away the defeated warrior strode to the spot where his 
mistress was seated and spoke a few hurried words, intended for her ear 
alone. The girl sprung to her feet and grasped her lover's hand. In 
another moment they were running swiftly for the woods. They were 
hotly pursued. It became a matter of life and death. Perceiving escape 
impossible, rendered desperate by the near approach of their pursuers, 



THE PINK HAM AWTCH. 1 53 

the fugitives, still holding fast each other's hand, rushed to the verge of 
the cataract and flung themselves headlong into its deadly embrace. 

Over the pool the gray and gloomy wall of Wildcat Mountain seems 
stretching up to an incredible height. The astonishing wildness of the 
surroundings affects one very deeply. You look up. You see the firs 
surmounting those tall cliffs sway to and fro, as if growing dizzy with 
the sight of the abyss beneath them. 

The Ellis Cascade is not so light as those mountain sylphs in the 
great Notch, which a zephyr lifts from their feet, and scatters far and 
wide ; it is a vestal hotly pursued by impish goblins to the brink of the 
precipice, transformed into a water-fall. For an instant the iron grip of 
the cliff seems clutching its snowy throat, but with a mocking courtesy 
the fair stream eludes the grasp, and so escapes. 

While returning from Glen Ellis, I saw, not more than a quarter of 
a mile from this fall, a beautiful cascade come streaming down a long 
trough of granite from a great height, and disappear behind the tree-tops 
that skirt the narrow gorge. I had ne\'er before seen this cascade, it 
being usually dry in summer. The sight of glancing water among the 
shaggy upper forests of the mountain — for you hear nothing — is a real 
pleasure to the eye. The rock down which this cascade flows is New 
River Cliff. 

Before leaving the Ellis, which I did regretfully, it is proper to recall 
an incident which gave rise to one of its affluents. In 1775, says Sulli- 
van, in his " History of Maine," the Saco was found to swell suddenly, 
and in a singular manner. As there had not been rain sufficient to ac- 
count for this increase of volume, people were at a loss how to explain 
the phenomenon, until it was finally discovered to be occasioned by a 
new river having broken out of the side of the White Mountains. 

When this river issued from the mountains, in October, 1775, a mixt- 
ure of iron -ore gave the water a deep red color, and this singular, and 
to them most startling, appearance led the people inhabiting the upper 
banks of the Saco to declare that the river ran blood — a circumstance 
which these simple-minded folk regarded as of evil omen for the success 
of their arms in the struggle then going on between the Colonies and 
Great Britain. Except for illustrating a marked characteristic the inci- 
dent would possess little importance. Considerable doubt exists as to the 
precise course of this New River, by which it is conjectured that the 
ascents of Cutler, Boott, Bigelow, and perhaps others, early in this cen- 



154 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

tury, were made to the summit of Mount Washington. But this is merely 
conjecture.^ 

After Glen Ellis one has had enough, for the day at least, of water- 
falls and cascade. Its excitement is strangely infectious and exhilarat- 
ing. At the same time, it casts a sweet and gentle spell over the 
spirits. If he be wise, the visitor will not exhaust in a single tour of the 
sun the pleasures yet in store, but, after a fall, try a ravine or a moun- 
tain ascent, thus introducing that variety which is the spice of all our 
pleasures. 

' Peabody River is said to have originated in the same manner, and in a single night. It 
is probable, however, that as long as there has been a valley there has also been a stream. 



A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S. 1 55 



V. 

A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S. 

The crag leaps down, and over it the flood : 
Know'st thou it, then ? 

'Tis there ! 'tis there 
Our way runs. . . . Wilt thou go? — Goethe. 

AT the mountains the first look of every one is directed to the 
heavens, not in silent adoration or holy meditation, but in ear- 
nest scrutiny of the weather. For here the weather governs with ab- 
solute sway ; and nowhere is it more capricious. Morning and even- 
ing skies are, therefore, consulted with an interest the varied destinies 
of the day may be supposed to suggest. From being a merely conven- 
tional topic, the weather becomes one of the first importance, and such 
salutations as " A fine day," or " A nice morning," are in less danger of 
being coupled with a wet day or a scowling forenoon. To sum up the 
whole question, where life in the open air is the common aim of all, a 
rainy day is a day lost, and everybody knows that a lost day can never 
be recovered. Sun worship is, therefore, universal. 

The prospect being duly weighed and pronounced good, or fair, or 
fairly good, presto! the hotel presents a scene of active preparation. 
Anglers, with rod and basket, betake themseh'cs to the neighboring 
trout brooks, artists to the woods or the open. Mountain wagons clat- 
ter up to the door with an exhilarating spirit and dash. Amid much 
laughter and cracking of jokes, these strong, yet slight -looking vehicles 
are speedily filled with parties for the summit, the Crystal Cascade, or 
Glen Ellis ; knots of pedestrians, picturesquely dressed, move off with 
elastic tread for some long- meditated climb among the hills or in the 
ravines; while the regular stages for Gorham or Glen Station depart 
amid hurried and hearty leave-takings, the flutter of handkerchiefs, and 
the sharp crack of the driver's whip. Now they are off, and quiet settles 
once more upon the long veranda. 



156 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

My own plans included a trip in and out of Tuckerman's Ravine ; 
in by the old Thompson path, out by the Crystal Cascade. It is neces- 
sary to depart a little from the order of time, as my first essay (during 
the first week of May) was frustrated by the deep snows then effectu- 
ally blockading the way above Hermit Lake. The following July found 
me more fortunate, and it is this excursion that I shall now lay before 
the reader for his approval. 

I chose a companion to whom I unfolded the scheme, while recon- 
noitring the ravine through my glass. He eagerly embraced my pro- 
posal, declaring his readiness to start on the instant. Upon a hint I let 
fall touching his ability to make this then fatiguing march, he observed, 
rather stiffly, " I went through one Wilderness with Grant ; guess I can 
through this." 

" Pack your knapsack, then, comrade, and you shall inscribe ' Tuck- 
erman's ' along with Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg." 

" Bless me ! is it so very tough as all that .^ No matter, give me five 
minutes to settle my affairs, and I'm with you." 

Let us improve these minutes by again directing the glass toward 
the ravine. 

The upper section of this remarkable ravine — that portion lifted 
above the forest line — is finely observed from the neighborhood of the 
Crystal Cascade, but from the Glen House the curiously distorted rim 
and vertical wall of its south and west sides, the astonishing crag stand- 
ing sentinel over its entrance, may be viewed at full leisure. It consti- 
tutes quite too important a feature of the landscape to escape notice. 
Dominated by the towering mass of the Dome, infolded by undulating 
slopes descending from opposite braces of Mount Washington, and re- 
sembling gigantic draperies, we see an enormous, funnel -shajDed, hollow 
sunk in the very heart of the mountain. We see, also, that access is 
feasible only from the north-east, where the entrance is defended by the 
high crag spoken of. Behind these barriers, graven with a thousand 
lines and filled with a thousand shadows, the amphitheatre lifts its for- 
midable walls into view. 

For two miles our plain way led up the summit-road, but at this dis- 
tance, where it suddenly changes direction to the right, we plunged into 
the forest. Our course now lay onward and upward over what had at 
some time been a path — now an untrodden one — encumbered at every 
few rods with fallen trees, soaked with rain, and grown up with moose- 



SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S. 



•57 



wood. Time and again .-,^.~. 
we found tlie way 
barred by these ex- 
asperating windfalls, 
and- their thick abatis of 
branches, forcing us alter- 
nately to go down on all- 
fours and creep underneath. 
or to mount and dismount 
like recruits, on the wooden 
horse of a cavalry school. 

But to an) one lo\ing 
the uood^— and thiss 




THE PATH, TUCKERMAN S KAVI.NE. 



day I loved not 
wisely, but too well — 

this walk is .something to be 
taken, but not repeated, for fear 
of inii)airing the first and most 
abiding impressions. One cannot 
have such a revelation twice. 



I 5 8 THE HE ART O E THE WHI TE M O i'N TA INS . 

I recall no mountain -path that is so richly diversified with all the 
wildest forms of mountain beauty. At first our progress through primi- 
tive groves of pine, hemlock, and birch was imjDeded by nothing more 
remarkable than the giant trees stretching interminably, rank upon rank, 
tier upon tier. But these woods, these countless gray and black and 
white trunks, and outspread framework of branches, supported a canopy 
of thick foliage, filled with voices innumerable. Something stirred in 
the top of a lofty pine ; and then, like an alguazil on a watch-tower, a 
crow, apparent sentinel of all the feathered colony, rose clumsily on his 
talons, flapped two sable wings, and thrice hoarsely challenged, " Caw ! 
caw ! caw !" What clamor, what a liliputian Babel ensued ! Our ears 
fairly tingled with the calls, outcries, and objurgations apparently flung 
down at us by the multitudinous population overhead. Hark to the 
woodpecker's rat -tat -tat, the partridges muffled drum! List to the 
bugle of the wood-thrush, sweet and clear! Now sounds the cat-bird's 
shrill alarm, the owl's hoot of indignant surprise. Then the squirrels, 
those little monkeys of our northern woods, grated their teeth sharply 
at us, and let fall nuts on our heads as we passed imderneath. Never 
were visitors more unwelcome. 

Before long we came to a brook, then to another. Their foaming 
waters shot past like a herd of wild horses. These we crossed. We 
now began to thread a region where the forest was more open. The 
moss we trampled underfoot, and which here replaces the grass of the 
valleys, was beating the tallest trees in the race for the mountain-top. It 
was the old story of the tortoise and the hare over again. But this 
moss : have you ever looked at it before your heel bruised the perfumed 
flowers springing from its velvet .^ Here are tufts exquisitely decorated 
with coral lichens ; here the violet and anemone nestle lovingly to- 
gether; here it creeps up the gray trunks, or hides the bare roots of 
old trees. Tread softly ! This is the abode of elves and fairies. Step 
lightly ! you expect to hear the crushed flowers cry out with pain. 

These enchanting spots, where stones are couches and trees canopies, 
tempted us to sit down on a cushioned bowlder, or throw ourselves 
upon the thick carpet into which we sunk ankle -deep at every step. 
Even the bald, gray rocks were tapestried with mosses, lichens, and 
vines. All around, under the thick shade, hundreds of enormous trees 
lay rotting ; yet exquisitely the prostrate trunks were overspread with 
robes of softest green, effectually concealing the repulsiveness, the sug- 



A SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S. 159 

gestions of decay. Now and then the dead tree rose into new life 
through the sturdy roots of a young fir, or luxuriant, plumed ferns grow- 
ing in its bark. This inexpressible fecundity, in the midst of inexpressi- 
ble wastefulness, declared that for Nature there is no such thing as death. 
And they tell us the day of miracles has passed ! Upon this dream of 
elf-land the cool morning light fell in oblique streams through the tree- 
trunks, as through grated windows, filling all the wood with a subdued 
twilight glimmer, leaving a portion of its own gleams on the moss-grown 
rocks, while the trees stretched their black shadows luxuriously along the 
thick-piled sward, like weary soldiers in a bivouac. 

We proceeded thus from chamber to chamber, and from cloister to 
cloister, at times descending some spur of the mountain into a deep- 
shaded dell, and again climbing a swift and miry slope to better ground, 
until we crossed the stream coming from the high spur spoken of. 
From here the ground rapidly rose for half a mile more, when we sud- 
denly came out of the low firs full upon the Lion's Head crag, rising 
above Hermit Lake, and visible from the vicinity of the Glen House. 
To be thus unexpectedly confronted by this wall of imperishable rock 
stirs one very deeply. For the moment it dominates its, even as it does 
the little tarn so unconsciously slumbering at its feet. It is horribly 
mutilated and defaced. Its sides are thickly sowed with stunted trees, 
that bury their roots in its cracks and rents with a gripe of iron. In 
effect it is the barbican of the great ravine. Crouched underneath, by 
the shore of the lake, is a matted forest of firs and spruces, dwindled 
to half their usual size, grizzled with long lichens, and occupying, as if 
by stealth, the debatable ground between life and death. It is, in fact, 
more dead than alive. Deeply sunk beneath is the lake. 

Hermit Lake — a little pool nestling underneath a precipice — de- 
mands a word. Its solitary state, its waters green and profound, and 
the thick shades by which it was covered, seemed strangely at variance 
with the intense activity of the foaming torrents we had seen, and could 
still hear rushing down the mountain. It was too small for a lake, or 
else it was dwarfed by the immense mass of overshadowing rock tower- 
ing above it, whose reflected light streamed across its still and glossy 
surface. Here we bid farewell to the forest. 

We had now gained a commanding post of observation, though there 
was yet rough work to do. We saw the whole magnificent sweep of the 
ravine, to where it terminates in a semicircle of stupendous cliffs that 



i6o 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



seem hewn perpendicularly a thousand feet down. Lying against the 
western wall we distinguished patches of snow; but they appeared of 
trifling extent. Great wooded mountain slopes stretched away from the 
depths of the gorge on either side, making the iron lineaments of the 
giant cliffs seem harder by their own softness and delicacy. Here and 
there these e.xquisite draperies were torn in long rents by land-slips. In 
the west arose the shattered peak of Monroe — a mass of splintered 
granite, conspicuous at every point for its irreclaimable deformity. It 




seemed as if the huge open maw of the ravine might swallow up this 
peak with ease. There was a Dantesque grandeur and solemnity every- 
where. With our backs against the trees, we watched the bellying sails 
of a stray cloud which intercepted in its aerial voyage our view of the 
great summit; but it soon floated away, discovering the whitish -gray 
ledges to the very capstone of the dome itself. Looking down and over 
the thick woods beyond, we met again the burly Carter Mountains, 
pushed backward from the Pinkham Notch, and kept back by an invisi- 
ble vet colossal stremith. 



.} SCRAMBLE IN TUCKERMAN'S. l6l 

From Hermit Lake the only practicable way was by clambering up 
the bed of the mountain brook that falls through the ravine. The whole 
expanse that stretched on either side was a chaos of shattered granite, 
pitched about in awful confusion. Path there was none. No matter 
what way we turned, " no thoroughfare '" was car\-ed in stolid stone. We 
tried to force a passage through the stunted cedars that are mistaken at 
a mile for greensward, but were beaten back, torn and bleeding, to the 
brook. We then turned to the great bowlders, to be equally buffeted 
and abused, and finally repulsed upon the brook, which seemed all the 
while mocking our efforts. Once, while forcing a route, inch by inch, 
through the scrub, I was held suspended over a deep crevice, by my belt, 
until extricated by my comrade. At another time he disappeared to the 
armpits in a hole, from which I drew him like a blade from a scabbard. 
At this moment we found ourselves unable either to advance or retreat. 
The dwarf trees squeezed us like a vise. Who would have thought 
there was so much life in them ? At our wits' end, we looked at our 
bleeding hands, then at each other. The brook was the only clew to 
such a labyrinth, and to it, as from Scylla to Charybdis, we turned as 
soon as we recovered breath. But to reach it was no easy matter; we 
had literally to cut our way out of the jungle. 

When we were there, and had rested awhile from the previous severe 
exertions, my companion, alternately mopping his forehead and feeling 
his bruises, looked up with a quizzical expression, and ejaculated, " Faith, 
I am almost as glad to get out of this wilderness as the other! In any 
case," he gayly added, " I have lost the most blood here ; while in \'ir- 
ginia I did not receive a scratch." 

After this rude initiation into the mysteries of the ravine, we ad- 
vanced directly up the bed of the brook. But the brook is for half a 
mile nothing but a succession of leaps and plunges, its course choked 
with bowlders. We however toiled on, from rock to rock, first boosting, 
then hoisting each other up ; one moment splashing in a pool, the next 
halting in dismay under a cascade, which we must either mount like a 
chamois or ascend like a trout. The climber here tastes the full enjoy- 
ment of an encounter with untamed nature, which calls every thew and 
sinew into action. At length the stream grew narrower, suddenl\- di- 
vided, and we stood at the mouth of the Snow Arch, confronted by the 
vertical upper wall of the ra\ine. 

We stood in an arena "more majestic than the circus of a Titus or 



l62 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

a Vespasian." The scene was one of awful desolation. A little way 
below us the gorge was heaped with the ruins of some unrecorded con- 
vulsion, by \\hich the precipice had been cloven from base to summit, 
and the enormous fragments heaved into the chasm with a force the 
imagination is powerless to conceive. In the interstices among these 
blocks rose thickets of dwarf cedars, as stiff and unyielding as the livid 
rock itself. It was truly an arena which might have witnessed the 
gladiatorial combats of immortals. 

We did not at first look at the Snow Arch. The eye was irresisti- 
bly fascinated by the tremendous mass of the precipice above. From 
top to bottom its tawny front was covered with countless little streams, 
that clung to its polished wall without once cjuitting their hold. They 
twined and twisted in their downward course, like a brood of young 
serpents escaping from their lair ; nor could I banish the idea of the 
ghastly head of a Gorgon clothed with tresses of serpents. A poetic 
imagination has named this tangled knot of mountain rills, " The fall of 
a thousand streams." At the foot of the cliff the scattered waters unite, 
before entering the Snow Arch, in a single stream. Turning now to 
the right, the narrowing gorge, ascending by a steep slope as high as 
the upper edge of the precipice, points out the only practicable way to 
the summit of Mount Washington in this direction. But we have had 
enough of such climbing, for one day, at least. 

Partial recovery from the stupefaction which seizes and holds one 
fast is doubtless signalized in every case by an effort to account for 
the overwhelming disaster of which these ruins are the mute yet speak- 
ing evidence. We need go no farther in the search than the innocent- 
looking little rills, first dripping from the Alpine mosses, then perco- 
lating through the rocks of the high plateau, and falling over its edge 
in a thousand streams. Puny as they look, before their inroads the 
plateau line has doubtless receded, like the great wall of rock over which 
Niagara pours the waters of four seas. With their combined forces — 
how long ago cannot be guessed ; and what, indeed, does it signify .■" — 
knitted together by frost into Herculean strength, they assailed the 
granite cliffs that were older than the sun, older than the moon or the 
stars, mined and countermined year by year, inch by inch, drop by drop, 
until — honey-combed, riddled, and pierced to its centre, and all was ready 
for its final overthrow — winter gave the signal. In a twinkling, yielding 
to the stroke, and shattered into a thousand fragments, the cliffs laid 



A SCRAMBLE IX T U C K K R M A X'S. 



l6- 





their haughty heads 
low in the dust. After- 
ward the accumulated 
waters tranquilly continued the process ^^ 
of demolition, and of removing the soil 
from the deep excavation they had made, 
until the floor of the ravine had sunk to 
its present level. In California a man 
with a hose washes awav mountains to 

get at the gold deposits. This principle of hydraulic force i^ borrowed, 
pure and simple, from a mountain cataract. 

Osoood, the experienced guide, who had visited the ravine oftener 
than a'nybody else, assured me that never within his remembrance had 



SNOW ARCH, TLCKERMANS RAVINE. 



l64 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOL'XTAIXS. 

this forgotten forgement of winter, the Snow Arch, been seen to such 
advantage. We estimated its width at above two hundred feet, wliere 
it threw a solid bridge of ice over the stream, and not far from three 
liundred in its greatest length, where it lay along the slope of the gorge. 
Summer and winter met on this neutral fjround. Entering the Arch 
was joining January and July with a step. Flowers blossomed at the 
threshold. We caught water, as it dripped ice-cold from the roof, and 
pledged Old Winter in his own cellarage. The brook foamed at our 
feet. Looking up, there was a pretty picture of a tiny water-fall pouring 
in at the upper end and out at the ragged portal of the grotto. But I 
think we were most charmed with the remarkable sculpture of the roof, 
which was a groined arch fashioned as featly as was ever done by hu- 
man hands. What the stream had begun in secret the warm vapors had 
chiselled with a bolder hand, but not altered. As it was formed, so it re- 
mained — a veritable chapel of the hills, the brook droning its low, mo- 
notonous chant, and the dripping roof tinkling its refrain unceasingly. 
If the interior of the great ravine impressed us as the hidden receptacle 
of all waste matter, this lustrous heap of snow, so insignificant in its re- 
lation to the immensity of the chasm that we scarcely looked at it at 
first, now chased away the feeling of mingled terror and aversion — of 
having stolen unawares into the one forbidden chamber — and possessed 
us with a sense of the beautiful, which remained long after its glittering 
particles had melted into the stream that flowed beneath. So under a 
cold exterior is nourished the principle of undying love, which the aged 
mountain gives that earth may forever renew her fairest youth. 

The presence of this miniature glacier is a very simple matter. The 
fierce winds of winter which sweep over the plateau whirl the snows 
before them, over its crest, into the ravine, where they are lodged at 
the foot of the precipice, and accumulate to a great depth. As soon as 
released by spring, the little streams, falling down this wall, seek their 
old channels, and, being warmer, succeed in forcing a passage through 
the ice. By the end of August the ice usually disappears, though it 
sometimes remains even later. 

After picking up some fine specimens of ciuartz, sparkling with mica, 
and uttering a parting malediction on the black flies that tormented us, 
we took our way down and out of the ravine, following the general 
course of the stream along its steep valley, and, after an uneventful 
march of two hours, reached the upper waters of the Cr\-stal Cascade. 



JN AND ABOUT GO R HAM. l6; 



VI. 

IN AND ABOUT GORHAM. 

That lonely dwelling stood among the hills 
By a gray mountain stream. — Southey. 

AFTER the events described in the last chapter, I continued, hlce 
the navigator of unknown coasts, my tour of the great range. 
Half a mile below the Glen House, the Great Gulf discharges from its 
black throat the little river rising on the plateau at its head. The head 
of this stupendous abyss is a mountain, and mountains wall it in. Its 
depths remain unexplored except by an occasional angler or trapper. 

Two and a half miles farther on a road diverges to the left, crosses 
the Peabody by a bridge, and stretches on over a depression of the range 
to Randolph, where it intersects the great route from Lancaster and Jef- 
ferson to Gorham. Over the river, snugly ensconced at the foot of 
Mount Madison, is the old Copp place. Commanding, as it does, a noble 
prospect up and down the valley, and of all the great peaks except 
Washington, its situation is most inviting; more than this, the picture 
of the weather-stained farm-house nestling among these sleeping giants 
revives in fullest vigor our preconceived idea of life in the mountains, 
already shaken by the balls, routs, and grand toilets of the hotels. The 
house, as we see by Mistress Dolly Copp's register, has been known to 
many generations of tourists. The Copps have lived here about half a 

century. 

Travellers going up or down, between the Glen House and Gorham, 
usually make a detour as far as Copp's, in order to view the Imp to bet- 
ter advantage than can be done from the road. Among these travellers 
some have now and then knocked at the door and demanded to see the 
Imp. The hired girl invariably requests them to wait until she can call 
the mistress. 



i66 



T If !■: HEART OF THE WHITE M O L' X T A I N S . 



of-door 



Directly opposite the farm- 
house the inclined ridge of Imp 
Mountain is broken down per- 
pendicularly some two hundred 
feet, leaving a jagged cliff, re- 
sembling an immense step, fac- 
ing up the \'alley. This is a 
mountain of the Carter chain, 
loping gradually toward the 
Glen House. Upon this cliff, 
or this step, is the distorted hu- 
man profile which gives the 
mountain its name. A strong, 
clear light behind it is necessary 
to bring out all the features, the 
mouth especiallv, in bold relief 
against the sky, when the expres- 
sion is certainly almost diabolical. 
One imagines that some goblin, 
imprisoned for ages within the 
mountain, and suddenly liber- 
ated by an earthquake, e.xhibits 
its hideous countenance, still 
wearing the same look it wore 
at the moment it was entombed 
in its mask of granite. The 
forenoon is the best time, 
and the road, a few- 
rods back from the 
house, the best point 
from which to see it. 
The coal-black face is 
ilu n in shadow. 

The Copp farm-house 
has a tale of its own, illustrating 
in a remarkable manner the amount of phy- 
hardship that long training, and familiarity with rough out- 
rill occasionallv enable men to endure. .Seeing two men in 




IN AND ABOUT G OR II AM. 167 

the door-yard, I sat down on the chopping-l^lock, and entered into con- 
versation with them. 

By the time I had taken out my note-book I liad all the members of 
the household and all the inmates of the barn-yard around me. I might 
add that all were talking at once. The matron stood in the door-way, 
which her ample figure quite filled, trifling with the beads of a gold 
necklace. A younger face stared out over her shoulder; while an old 
man, whose countenance had hardened into a vacant smile, and one of 
forty or thereabouts, alternately passed my glass one to the other, with an 
astonishment similar to that displayed by Friday when he first looked 
through Crusoe's telescope. 

"Which of you is named Nathaniel Copp.-*" I asked, after they had 
satisfied their curiosity. 

" That is my name," the younger very deliberately responded. 
" Really," thought I, " there is little enough of the conventional hero in 
that face ;" therefore I again asked, " Are you the same Nathaniel Copp 
who was lost while hunting in the mountains, let me see, about twenty- 
five years ago V 

" Yes ; but I wasn't lost after I got down to Wild River," he hastily 
rejoined, like a man who has a reputation to defend. 

" Tell me about it, will you V 

I take from my note-book the following relation of the exploit of this 
mountain Nimrod, as I received it on the spot. But I had literally to 
draw it out of him, a syllable at a time. 

On the last day of January, 1855, Nathaniel Copp, son of Hayes D. 
Copp, of Pinkham's Grant, near the Glen House, set out from home 
on a deer hunt, and was out four successive days. On the fifth day he 
again left to look for a deer killed the previous day, about eight miles 
from home. Having found it, he dragged the carcass (weighing two hun- 
dred and thirty pounds) home through the snow, and at one o'clock r.M. 
started for another he had tracked near the place where the former was 
killed, which he followed until he lost the track, at dark. He then found 
that he had lost his own way, and should, in all probability, be obliged 
to spend the night in the woods, with the temix'rature ranging from 32" 
to 35° below zero. 

Knowing that to remain quiet was certain death, and having nothing 
with which to light a fire, the hunter began walking for his life. The 
moon shone out bright and clear, making the cold seem even more in- 



l6S THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOl'NTAINS. 

tense. While revolving in his mind his unpleasant predicament he heard 
a deer bleat. He gave chase, and easily overtook it. The snow was 
too deep for the animal to escape from a hunter on snow-shoes. Copp 
leaped upon his back, and despatched him with his hunting-knife. He 
then dressed him, and, taking out the heart, put it in his pocket, not for 
a trophv, but, as he told me, to keep starvation at arm's-length. The 
excitement of the chase made him forget cold until he perceived himself 
o-rowing benumbed. Rousing himself, he again pushed on, whither he 
knew not, but spurred by the instinct of self-preservation. Daylight 
found him still striding on, with no clew to a way out of the thick woods, 
which imprisoned him on every side. At length, at ten in the morning, 
he came out at or near Wild River, in Gilead, forty miles from home, 
having walked twenty one consecutive hours witliout rest or food, the 
greater part of the time through a tangled growth of underbrush. 

His friends at home becoming alarmed at his prolonged absence 
during such freezing weather, three of them, Hayes D. Copp, his father, 
John Goulding, and Thomas Culhane, started in search of him. They 
followed his track until it was lost in the darkness, and, by the aid of 
their dog, found the deer which young Copp had killed and dressed. 
They again started on the trail, but with the faintest hope of ever find- 
ino- the lost man alive, and, after being out twenty-six hours in the ex- 
treme cold, found the object of their search. 

No words can do justice to the heroic self-denial and fortitude with 
which these men continued an almost hopeless search, when every mo- 
ment expecting to find the stiffened corpse of their friend. Goulding 
froze both feet ; the others their ears. 

When found, young Copp did not seem to realize in the least the 
great danger through which he had passed, and talked with perfect un- 
concern of hunts that he had planned for the next week. One of his 
feet was so badly frozen, from the effect of too tightly lacing his snow- 
shoe, that the toes had to be amputated. 

Until reaching the bridge, within two miles of Gorham, I saw no 
one, heard nothing except the strokes of an axe, borne on the still air 
from some logging-camp, twittering birds, or chattering river. Ascend- 
ino- the hill above the bridge, I took my last look back at INIount Wash- 
ington, over whose head rose-tinted clouds hung in graceful folds. The 
summit was beautifully distinct. The bases of all the mountains were 
floating"- in that delicious blue haze, enrapturing to the artist, exasper- 



IN AND ABOUT G OR HAM. 169 

ating to the climber. Turning to my route, I had before me the village 
of Gorham, with the long slopes of Mount Hayes meeting in a regular 
pyramid behind it. Against the dusky wall of the mountain one white 
spire stood out clean and sharp. At my right, along the river, was a 
cluster of saw-mills, sheds, and shanties; beyond, an irregular line of 
forest concealing the town — all except the steeple; beyond that the 
mountain. As I entered the village, the shrill .scream of a locomotive 
pierced the still air, and, like the horn of Ernani, broke my dream of 
forgetfulness with its fatal blast, .\dieu, dreams of delusion ! we are 
once more manacled with the city. 

I loitered along the river road, hoping, as the sky was clear, to see 
the sun go do\\n on the great summits. Nor was I disappointed. As 
I walked on, IVIadison, the superb, gradually drew out of the Peabody 
Glen, and soon Washington came into line over the ridge of Moriah, 
whose highest precipices were kindled with a ruddy glow, while a won- 
derful white light rested, like a halo, on the brow of the monarch. Of a 
sudden, the crest of Moriah paled, then grew dark ; night rose from the 
black glen, twilight descended from the dusky heavens. For an instant 
the humps of Clay reddened in the afterglow. Then the light went out, 
and I saw only the towering forms of the giant mountains dimly traced 
upon the sky. A star fell. At this signal the great dome sparkled with 
myriad lights. Night had ascended her mountain throne. 

Gorham is situated on the Grand Trunk Railway, between Paris and 
Berlin, with Milan just beyond — names a trifle ambitious for villages 
with the bark on, but conferring distinction upon half a hundred other- 
wise obscure villages scattered from Maine to California. 

Gorham is also situated in one of those natural parks, called inter- 
vales, in an amphitheatre of hills, through which the Androscoggin 
flows with a strong, steady tide. The left bank is appropriated by 
Mount Hayes, the right by the village — a suspension bridge giving 
access from one to the other. This mountain rises abruptly from the 
river to a broad summit-plateau, from which a wide and brilliant pros- 
pect rewards the climber. The central portion of Gorham is getting to 
be much too busy for that rest and quietude which is so greatly desired 
by a large class of travellers to the mountains, but, on the other hand, 
its position with respect to the highest summits is more advantageous 
than that of any other town lying on the skirts of the mountains, and 
accessible by railway. In one hour the tourist can be at the Glen 

24 



lyo THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOLfNTAINS. 

House, in three on the summit of Mount Washington. Being at the 
very end of the great chain, in the angle where its last elevation abuts 
on the Androscoggin, the valley conducting around the northerly side 
of the great eminences, through the settlements of Randolph and Jeffer- 
son, furnishes another and a charming avenue of travel into the region 
watered by the Connecticut. As the great tide of travel flows in from 
the west and south, Gorham has profited little by the extension of rail- 
ways furnishing more direct communication with the heart of the 
mountains. 

Mount Hayes is the guardian of the village, erecting its rocky ram- 
part over it, like the precipices of Cape Diamond over Quebec. The 
hill in front is called Pine Mountain, though it is only a mountain by 
brevet. The tip of the peak of Madison peers down into the village 
over this hill. I plainly saw the snow up there from my window. To 
the left, and over the low slope of Pine Mountain, rise the Carter sum- 
mits, which here make a remarkably imposing background to the pict- 
ure, and in conjunction with the great range form the basin of the Pea- 
body. I saw this stream, making its final exit from the mountains, 
throw itself exhausted with its rapid course into the Androscoggin, half 
a mile below the hotel. North-west of the village street, drawn up in 
line across the valley, extend the Pilot peaks. 

The Carter group is said to have been named after a hunter. Ac- 
cording to Farmer, the Pilot Mountains were so called from a dog. 
Willard, a hunter, had been lost two or three days on these mountains, 
on the east side of which his camp was situated. Every day he ob- 
served that Pilot, his dog, regularly left him, as he supposed in search 
of game ; but toward nightfall would as regularly return to his master. 
This at length excited the attention of the hunter, who, when nearly 
exhausted with fatigue and hunger, decided to commit himself to the 
guidance of Pilot, and in a short time was conducted by the intelligent 
animal in safety to his camp. 

My first morning at Gorham was a beautiful one, and I prepared to 
improve it to the utmost by a walk around the northern base of Madi- 
son, neither knowing nor caring whither it might lead me. Spring was 
in her most enchanting mood. A few steps, and I was amid the marvels 
of a new creation, the tasselled birches, the downy willows, the oaks in 
gosling-gray. Even the gnarled and withered apple-trees gave promise 
of blossoming, and the young ferns, pushing aside the dead leaves, came 



IN A ND ABO U T G O K HA M . 171 

forth witli their tiny fists doubled for the battle of life. Why did not 
Nature so order it that mankind might rest like the trees, or shall we, 
like them, come forth at last strong, vigorous, beautiful, from that long 
refreshing slumber ? 

Leaving the village, at the end of a mile and a half I took the road 
turning to the left, where Moose River falls into the Androscoggin, at 
the point where the latter, making a remarkable bend, turns sharply 
away to the north. Moose River is a true mountain stream, clear and 
limpid, foaming along a bed of sand and pebbles. 

From this spot the whole extent of the Pilot range was unrolled at 
my right, while at the left, majestic among the lower hills, Madison and 
Adams were massed in one grand pyramid. The snows glistening on 
the summits seemed trophies torn from winter. 

About a mile from the turning, at Lary's, I found the best station for 
viewing the statuesque proportions of Madison. The foreground a swift 
mountain stream, white as the snows where it takes its rise. Beyond, a 
strip of meadow land, covered with young birches and poplars, just show- 
ing their tender, trembling foliage. Among these are scattered large, 
dead trees, relics of the primeval forest ; the middle ground a young 
forest, showing in its dainty wicker-work of branchlets that beady ap- 
pearance which belongs to spring alone, and is so exquisitely beautiful. 
Above this ascends, mile upon mile, the enormous bulk of the mountain, 
ashen -gray at the summit, dusky olive -green below. Stark precipices, 
hedged about with blasted pines, and seamed with snow, capped the great 
pile. Over this a pale azure, deepening in intensity toward the zenith, 
unrolled its magnificent drapery. 

After the ascent of Mount Hayes, which Mr. King has fittingly de- 
scribed as " the chair set by the Creator at the proper distance and angle 
to appreciate and enjoy " the kingly prominence of Mount Washington, 
the two things best worth seeing in the neighborhood are the falls of 
the Androscoggin at Berlin, and the beautiful view of the loftiest of 
the White Mountain peaks from what is called here the Lead Mine 
Bridge. To get to the falls you must ascend the river, and to obtain 
the view you must descend a few miles. I consecrated a day to this 
excursion. 

With a head already filled with the noise of half a hundred mountain 
torrents, water- falls, or cascades, I set out after breakfast for Berlin 
Falls, feeling that the passage of a body of water such as the Andros- 



172 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



cof^o'in is at Gorliam, through a narrow gorge, must be something differ- 
ent from the common. 

A word about Berlin. Its situation is far more picturesque than that 
of Gorham. There is the same environment of mountains, and, in addi- 
tion to the falls, a magnificent view of Madison, Adams, Jefferson, and of 
the Carter range. The precipices of Mount Forist, which overhang rail- 
way and village, are noticeable among a thousand. Here Dead River 
falls into the Androscoggin, and here the Grand Trunk Railway, taking 
leave of this river, turns to the north-west, crosses over to the Upper Am- 
monoosuc, twists and twines along with it among the northern moun- 
tains, and at last emerges upon the level meadows of the Connecticut. 

Berlin has another aspect. Lumber is its business; lumber its staple 
of conversation; people go to bed to dream of lumber. In a word, lum- 
ber is everywhere. The lumberman admires a tree in his way quite as 
much as you or I. No eye like his to estimate its height, its girth, its 
thickness. But as ships to Shylock, so trees to him are naught but 
boards — so many feet. So that there is something almost ferocious in 
the lumberman's or mill-owner's admiration for the forest; something 
almost startling in the idea that this out-of-the-way corner is devouring 
the forests at the rate of twenty car-loads a day. In plain language, this 
village cuts up a good-sized grove every day, and rejoices over it with a 
new house or a new barn. 

At the risk of being classed with the sentimental and the unpractical, 
every one who is alive to the consequences of converting our forests into 
deserts, or worse than deserts, should raise a voice of warning against 
this wholesale destruction. The consequences may be remote, but they 
are certain. For the most part, the travelled routes have long since been 
stripped of their valuable timber trees. Now the mills are fast eating 
their way into the hitherto inaccessible regions, leaving a track of deso- 
lation behind wherever they go, like that of a destroying army. What 
cannot be carried away is burnt. Fires are seen blazing by the side of 
every saw-mill, in which all the waste material is carefully consumed. A 
trifle.^ Enough is consumed every year in this way to furnish the great 
city of New York with its fuel. I speak with moderation. Not a vil- 
lage but has its saw-mills; while at Whitefield, Bethlehem, Livermore, 
Low, and Burbank's Grant, and many other localities, the havoc is 
frightful. Forest fires, originating chiefly in the logging- camps, annu- 
ally desolate leagues of forest land. How long is this to continue ? 



IN AND ABOUT GOKHAM. l-JS 

The mountain labors incessantly to re-create, but what can it do 
against such fearful odds ? and what shall we do when it can no longer 
furnish pine to build our homes, or wood to warm them ? Delve deeper 
and deeper under the AUeghanies ? In about two hundred and fifty 
years the noble forests, which set the early discoverers wild with enthu- 
siasm, have been steadily driven farther and farther back into the inte- 
rior, until "the forest primeval" exists not nearer than a hundred miles 
inland. Then the great northern wilderness began at the sea-coast. It 
is now in the vicinity of Lake Umbagog. Still the warfare goes on. I 
do not call occasional bunches of wood forests. All this means less and 
less moisture ; consequently, more and more drouth. The tree draws the 
cloud from heaven, and bestows it on the earth. The summer of 1880 
was one of almost unexampled dryness. Large rivers dwindled to piti- 
ful rivulets, brooks were dried up, and the beautiful cascades in many 
instances wholly disappeared. The State is powerless to interfere. Not 
so individuals, or combinations of individuals for the preservation of 
such tracts of woodland as the noble Cathedral woods of North Con- 
way. In the West a man who plants a tree is a public benefactor; is he 
who saves the life of one in the East less so 1 America, says Berthold 
Auerbach, is no longer "the Promised Land for the Old World;"' if she 
does not protect her woods, she will become " waste and dry," like the 
Promised Land of the ancients— Palestine itself. Look on this picture 
of Michelet: 

" On the shores of the Caspian, for three or four hundred leagues, 
one sees nothing, one encounters nothing, but midway an isolated and 
solitary tree. It is the love and worship of every passing wayfarer. 
Each one offers it something; and the very Tartar, in default of every 
other gift, will snatch a hair from his beard or his horse's mane." 

The season when the great movement of lumber from the northern 
wilderness to the sea begins is one of great activity. The logs are 
floated down the Androscoggin from Lake Umbagog with the spring 
freshets, when those destined to go farther are " driven," as the lumber- 
men's phrase is, over the falls and through the rapids here, to be picked 
up below. It may well be belie\-ed that the passage of the falls by a 
" drive " is a sight worth witnessing. Sometimes the logs get so tightly 
jammed in the narrow gorge of the river that it seems impossible to ex- 
tricate them ; but the dam they form causes the river to rise behind it, 
when the accumulated and pent-up waters force their way through the 



174 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

obstruction, tossing huge logs in the air as if thev were straws. A 
squad of lumbermen — tough, muscular, handy fellows they are — ac- 
companies each drive, just as vaqiwros do a Texan herd ; and the 
herd of logs, like the herd of cattle, is branded with the owner's mark. 
After making the drive of the falls, the men move down below them, 
where they find active and, so far as appearance goes, dangerous work 
in disentangling the snarls of logs caught among the rocks of the rapids. 
Against a current no ordinary boat could stem for a moment ; they dart 
hither and thither in their light bateaux, as the herdsman does on his 
active little mustang. If a log grounds in the midst of the rapids, the 
bateaux dashes toward it. One ri\er-driver jumps upon it, and holds the 
boat fast, while another grapples it with a powerful lever called a cant- 
dog. In a moment the log rolls off the rocks with a loud splash, and 
is hurried away by the rapid tide. 

During the drive the lumberman is almost always wet to the skin, 
day in and day out. When a raft of logs is first started in the spring 
the men suffer from the exposure ; but after a little time the work 
seems to toughen and harden them, so that they do not in the least 
mind the amphibious life they are forced to lead. Rain or shine, they 
get to their work at five in the morning, leaving it only when it is too 
dark to see longer. Each squad — for the whole force is divided into 
what may be called skirmishers, advanced -guards, main body, and rear- 
guard, each having its appointed work to perform — then repairs to its 
camp, which is generally a tent pitched near the river, where the cook 
is waiting for their arrival with a hot supper of fried doughnuts and 
baked beans — the lumberman's diet of preference. They pass the even- 
ing playing euchre, telling stories, or relating the experiences of the 
day, and are as simple, hearty, happy-go-lucky fellows as can be found 
in the wide world. 

To say that the Berlin Falls begin two miles below the village is no 
more than the truth, since at this distance the river was sheeted in foam 
from shore to shore. For these two miles its bed is so thickly sown 
with rocks that it is like a river stretched on the rack. The whole river, 
every drop of it, is hemmed in by enormous masses of granite, forming 
a long, narrow, and rocky gorge, down which it bursts in one mad 
plunge, tossing and roaring like the Maelstrom. What fury ! What 
force ! The solid earth shakes, and the very air trembles. It is a sat- 
urnalia. A whirlwind of passion, swift, uncontrollable, and terrible. 



IN A ND ABO U T G O K HA M. I 7 5 

The best situation I could find was upon a jutting ledge below the 
little foot-bridge thrown from rock to rock. Several turns in the long 
course of the cataract prevent its whole extent being seen all at once ; ■ 
but it starts up hither and thither among the rocks, boiling with rage at 
being so continually hindered in its free course, until, at last, madness 
seizes it, and, flying straight at the throat of the gorge, it goes down in 
one long white wave, overwhelming everything in its way. It reaches 
the foot of the rocks in fleeces, darts wildly hither and thither, shakes 
off the grasp of concealed rocks, and, racing on, stretches itself on its 
wide and shallow bed, uttering a tremulous wail. 

From the village at the falls, and from Berlin Mills, are elevations 
from which the great White Mountains are grandly conspicuous. The 
view is similar to that much extolled one from Milan, the town next to 
Berlin. Here the three great mountains, closed in mass, display a triple 
crown of peaks, Washington being thrown back to the left, and behind 
Madison, with Adams on his right. Best of all is the blended effect of 
early morning, or of the afterglow, when a few light clouds sail along 
the crimson sky, and their shadows play hide-and-seek on the mountam 
sides. 

In the afternoon, while walking down the road to Shelburne, I met 
an apparently honest farmer, with whom I held some discourse. He 
was curious about the great city he had known half a century before, 
when it was in swaddling clothes; I about the mountains above and 
around us, that had never known change since the world began. An 
amiable contest ensued, in which each tried to lead the other to talk of 
the topic most interesting to himself. The husbandman grew eloquent 
upon his native State and its great man. " But what," I insisted, " do 
you think of your greatest mountain there?" pointing to the splendid 

peak. 

"Oh, drat the mountains! I never look at "em. Ask the old 

woman." 

Some enticing views may be had from the Shelburne intervales, 
embracing Madison on the right, and Washington on the left. It is, 
therefore, permitted to steal an occasional look back until we reach the 
Lead Mine Bridge, and stand over the middle of the flashing Andros- 
coggin. 

The dimpled river, broad here, and showing tufts of foliage on its 
satin surface, recedes between wooded banks to the middle distance, 



176 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



where it disappears. Swaying to and fro, without noise, the lithe and 
slender willows on the margin continually dipped their budding twigs 
in the stream, as if to show its clear transparency, while letting fall, drop 
by drop, its crystal globules. They gently nodded their green heads, 
keeping time to the low music of the river. 

Beyond the river, over gently meeting slopes of the valley, two mag- 
nificent shapes, Washington and Madison, rose grandly. Those truly 




THE ANDROSCOGGIN .\T SHEI.BURNE. 



regal summits still wore their winter ermine. They were drawn so 
widely apart as to show the familiar peaks of Mount Clay protruding 
between them. It is hardly possible to imagine a more beautiful pict- 
ure of mountain scenery. Noble river, hoary summits, blanched preci- 
pices, over whose haggard visages a little color was beginning to steal, 
eloquently appealed to every perception of the beautiful and the sublime. 
Much as the view from this point is extolled, it can hardly be over- 
praised. True, it exhibits the same objects that we see from Berlin and 
Milan ; but the order of arrangement is not only reversed, but so altered 
as to render any comparison impossible. In this connection it may be 
remarked that a short removal usually changes the whole character of 
a mountain landscape. No two are precisely alike. 

The annals of Shelburne, which originally included Gorham within its 
limits, are sufificiently meagre ; but they furnish the same story of struggle 



IN A ND ABO U T G O R HA M. 1 7 7 

with hardship— often with danger— common to the early settlements in 
this region. Shelburne was settled, just before the breaking out of the 
Revolution, by a handful of adventurous pioneers, who were attacked in 
1 781 by a prowling band of hostile Indians. This incursion is memorable 
as one of the last recorded in the long series going back into the first 
decade of the New England colonies. It was one of the boldest. The 
histories place the number of Indians at only six. After visiting Bethel, 
where they captured three white men, and Gilead, where they killed an- 
. other, they entered .Shelburne. Here they killed and scalped Peter 
Poor, and took a negro prisoner. Such was the terror inspired by this 
audacious onset, that the inhabitants, making no defence, fled, panic- 
struck, to Hark Hill, where they passed the night, leaving the savages 
to plunder the village at their leisure. The next day the refugees con- 
tinued their flight, stopping only when they reached Fryeburg, fifty- 
nine miles from the scene of disaster. 

Before taking leave of the Androscoggin Valley, which is an opulent 
picture-gallery, and where at every step one finds himself arrested before 
some masterpiece of Nature, the traveller is strongly advised to continue 
his journey to Bethel, the town next below Shelburne. Bethel is one of 
the loveliest and dreamiest of mountain nooks. Its expanses of rich 
verdure, its little steeple, emerging from groves of elm -trees, its rustic 
bridge spanning the tireless river, its air of lethargy and indolence, cap- 
tivate eye and mind ; and to eyes tired with the hardness and glare of 
near mountains, the distant peaks become points of welcome repose. 



1 78 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



VII. 

ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD. 

Where the huge mountain rears his brow subHme. 
On which no neighboring height its shadow flings, 
Led by desire intense the steep I climb. 

Petrarch. 

THE first days of May, 1877, found me again at the Glen House, pre- 
pared to put in immediate execution the long -deferred purpose of 
ascending Mount Washington in the balmy days of spring. Before sep- 
arating for the night, my young Jehu, who dro\-e me from Gorham in an 
hour, said, with a grin, 

" So you are going where they cut their butter with a chisel, and 
their meat with a hand-saw .''"' 

" What do you mean .''" 

" Oh, you will learn to-morrow." 

" Till to-morrow, then." 

" Good-night." 

" Good-night." 

At six in the morning, while the stars were yet twinkling, I stood in 
the road in front of the Glen House. Everything announced a beautiful 
day. The rising sun crimsoned, first, the dun wall of Tuckerman's Ra- 
vine, then the high summits, and then flowed down their brawny flanks 
— his first salutation being to the monarch. In ten minutes I was alone 
in the forest with the squirrels, the partridges, the woodpeckers, and my 
own thoughts. 

As bears are not unfrequently seen at this season of the year, I kept 
my eyes about me. One of the old drivers related to me that one morn- 
ing, while going up this road with a heavy load of passengers, his horses 
suddenly stopped, showing most unmistakable signs of terror. The 
place was a dangerous one, where the road had been wholly excavated 



A S C E N T BY THE C.l K R J AGE-ROAD. 179 

from tlie steep side of the mountain, so, keeping one eye upon his frac- 
tious team, he threw quick glances right and left with the other; while 
the passengers, alarmed by the sudden stop, the drivers shouts to his 
animals, and the still more alarming backward movement of the coach, 
thrust their heads out of the windows, and with white faces demanded 
what was the matter. 

"By thunder!" ejaculated Jehu, " there was my leaders all in a lather, 
an' backin' almost atop of the iill-horses, and them passengers a-shoutin' 
like lunatics let out on a picnic. 'Look! darn it all,' sez I, a-pintin' 
with my whip. My bosses was all in a heap, I tell ye, rarin' and charg- 
ing, when a little Harvard student, with his head sand-papered, sung out, 
'All right, Cap, I've chucked your hind wheels:' and then he made for 
the leaders' heads. Them college chaps ain't such darned fools arter all, 
they ain't." 

" What was it ?" 

"A big black bear, all huddled up in a bunch, a-takin' his morning 
observation on the scenery from the top of a dead sycamore. You see 
the side of the hill was so slantin' steep that he wa'n't more'n tew rod 
from the road." 

" What did you do .•*" 

"Dew?" echoed the driver, laughing — "dew.?" he repeated, "why, them 
crazy passengers, when they found the bear couldn't get at them, just 
picked up rocks and hove them at the old cuss. When one hit him a 
crack. Lord, how he'd shake his head and growl ! But, you see, he 
couldn't get at 'em, so they banged away, until Mr. Bruin couldn't stan' 
it any longer, an' slid right down the tree as slick as grease, and as mad 
as Old Nick. It tickled me most to death to see him a-makin' tooth- 
picks fly from that tree." 

"Was that your only encounter with bears .■^" I asked, willing to draw 
him out. 

" Waal, no, not exactly," he replied, chuckling to himself, gleefully, at 
some recollection the question revived. " There used to be a tame bear 
over to the Alpine House. One night the critter got loose, and we all 
cal'lated he'd took to the woods. Anyhow we hunted high and low; but 
no bear. Waal, you see, one forenoon our hostler Mike — his real name 
was Pat, but there was another Pat came afore him, so we called t'other 
Mike — went up in the barn -chamber to pitch some hay down to the 
hos.ses." Here he stopped and began to choke. 



l8o THE HEART OF THE WHITE MO UXTAIXS. 

" Well, go on : what has that to do with the bear ?" 

' - •- _ hosses a minnit, stranger. Mike hadn't no 

irk down, so as to git a big bunch, when it 

struck soniethir_ - ir. and then, before he knew what ailed him, the 

hay-rr. •' -^ -- .:._.c him. with the almightiest growl comin' out on't 

was e "." ma\-nager}" this side of Noah's Ark." 

Here the driver broke down utterly, gasping. " Oho I aha! oh Lord! 
ah I ha I ha I ha I ha I ho ! ho I Mike I" until his breath was quite gone, and 
the big tears rolled down his cheeks. Then he heaved a deep sigh, 
a:: ^ :.. but immediately went off in a second hysterical 

L - :^r his recover}-. 

■■ \\ aa: _ resumed, "the long and short of it was this: 

th"* " - - " ~elf under the hay-mow, and was a-snoozin' 

:: s you please, when Mike prodded him in 

t _ fust any of us knew we saw Mike 

c r.ber window and the bear arter him. 

Mike led him Maybe that Irishman didn't streak it for the 

house I Bless ; - ched the ground arter he struck it ! The 

boys couldn't d _ laughing, and Mick was so scart he forgot 

to yell. That bear was so hoppin' wild we had to kill him; and if you 
wanted " - --:e Mike fightin" mad any time, all you had to do was to 
ask h: _ :o in the barn-chamber and pitch down a bear." 

- -ome. It is only when emerging 

u^ _,- ~ that the wonders of the ascent 

begin, and the succession of \-iews, dimly seen through my eyes in this 
chapter, challenges the attent: " :r\- step. There is one exception. 
About a mile uo. the road i>- . a "jtting spur of the mountain. 

~iit. with the hou?, highest point, is seen in 

Suddenlv 1 "r-. the scrubby growth of birches, 

: the bared and wintrj- summit. The 
_ - :ag brightness upon the white ledges, 

which, rising like a wall above the solitar}* cabin before me, thrust their 
jagged edges in the way, as if to forbid farther progress. Out of this 
glitterinor precipice dead trees thrust huge antlers. This formless mass 
overh: .^ . Half-W known as The Ledge, is one of the 

most :^...:.^ --^•'^ts of the - • 

Until clear of the woods, my uneasiness, inspired by the recollection 



ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD. i8l 

of the ascent from Crawford's, was extreme ; but I now stood, in the full 
blaze of an unclouded sun, upon a treeless wilderness of rock, a gratified 
spectator of one of the most extraordinary scenes it has ever fallen to 
man's lot to witness. But what a frightful silence! Not a murmur; not 
a rustling leaf ; but all still as death. I was half-afraid. 

At my feet yawned the measureless void of the Great Gulf, torn 
from the entrails of the mountain by Titanic hands. Above my head 
leaped up the endless i^ile of granite constituting the dome of Washing- 
ton. It had now exchanged its gray cassock for pale green. All around 
was unutterable desolation. Crevassed with wide splits, encomjDassed 
round by lofty mountain walls, the gorge was at once fascinating and 
forbidding, grand yet terrible. The high -encircling steeps of Clay and 
Jefferson, Adams and Madison, enclosing it with one mighty sweep, as- 
cended out of its depths and stretched along the sky, which seemed 
receding before their daring advance. Peering down into the abyss, 
where the tallest pines were shrubs and their trunks needles, the earth 
seemed split to its centre, and the feet of these mountains rooted in the 
midst. To confront such a spectacle unmoved one should be more, or 
less than human. 

Looking backward over the forest through which I had come, the 
eye caught a blur of white and a gleam of blue in the Peabody Glen. 
The white was the hotel, the blue the river. Following the vale out to 
its entrance upon the Androscoggin meadows, the same swift messenger 
ascended Moriah, and, traversing the confederate peaks to the summit of 
Mount Carter, stopped short at its journey's end. 

As I slowly mounted the Ledge the same unnatural appearance was 
everywhere — the same wreck, same desolation, same discord. The dead 
cedars, bleaching all around, looked like an army of gigantic crabs crawl- 
ing up the mountain side, which universal ruin overspread, and which 
even the soft sunshine rendered more ghastly and more solemn. I 
looked eagerly along the road; listened. Not a human being; not a 
sound. I Vvas alone upon the mountain. 

From here I no longer walked upon earth but on air. Respira- 
tion became more and more difficult. Not even a zephyr stirred, while 
the glare was painful to eyes already overtaxed in the endeavor to grasp 
the full meaning of this most unaccustomed scene. The road, steadily 
ascending, showed its zigzags far up the mountain. Now and then a 
rude receptacle had been dug, or rather built up, by the road -side, in 



l8 2 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOIXTAIXS. 





was stored 



MOUNT ADAMS AND THE GREAT GULF. 



Winch taith to 
mend the road 
and this soil, whol- 
ly composed of disintegrated 
rock, must be scraped from un- 
derneath the ledges, from crevices, from 



ASCENT BY THE C A K R I A G E- R O A D. 183 

hollows, and husbanded with care. " As cheap as dirt," was a saying 
without significance here. .As I neared the summit the melting snows 
had, in man}- places, swept it bare, exposing the naked ledge ; and here 
earth must be brought up from lower down the mountain. But the 
pains bestowed upon it equals the incessant demand for its preservation, 
and had I not seen with my own eyes I could scarcely have believed so 
excellent a specimen of road-making existed in this desert. 

But how long will the mountain resist the denuding process con- 
stantly going on, and what repair the gradual but certain disintegration 
of the peak.'' It is a monument of human inability to act upon it in 
any way. Be it so. The snows, the frosts, the rains, pursue their work 
none the less surely. You see in the deep gullies, the avalanches of 
stones, the sands of the sea-shore — so many evidences of the forces which, 
sooner or later, will accomplish the miracle and remove the mountain. 

From my next halting-place I perceived that I had been traversing 
a promontory of the mountain jutting boldly out into the Great Gulf, 
above the Half- Way House; and, looking down over the parapet -wall, 
a mile or more of the road uncoiled its huge folds, turning hither and 
thither, doubling upon itself like a bewildered serpent, and. like the ser- 
pent, always gaining a little on the mountain. This is one of the 
strangest sights of this strange journey; but, in order to appreciate it at 
its full value, one should be descending by the stage-coach, when the 
danger, more apparent than real, is intensified by the swift descent of 
the mountain into the gulf below, over which the traveller sees himself 
suspended with feelings more poignant than agreeable. The fact that 
there has never been a fatal accident upon the carriage -road speaks 
volumes for the caution and skill of the drivers ; but, as one of the old- 
est and most experienced said to me, " There should be no fooling, no 
chaffing, and no drinking on that road."' 



' Since the above was written, a deplorable accident has given melancholy emphasis to 
these words of warning. I leave them as they are, because they were employed by the very 
person to whom the disaster was due : " The first accident by which any passengers were ever 
injured on the carriage-road, from the Glen House to the summit of Mount Washington, oc- 
curred July 3d, 1880, about a mile below the Half-Way House. One of the six-horse moun- 
tain wagons, containing a party of nine persons — the last load of the e.xcursionists from Michi- 
gan to make the descent of the mountain — was tipped over, and one lady was killed and five 
others injured. Soon after starting from the summit the passengers discovered that the 
driver had been drinking while waiting for the party to descend. They left this wagon a 
short distance from the summit and walked to the Half-Way House, four miles below, where 



184 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Continuing- to ascend, the road once more took a different direction, 
cur\ing around that side of the mountain rising above the Pinkham 
forest. This detour brought the Carter chain upon my left, instead of 
on my right. 

Thus far I had encountered little snow, though the rocks were every- 
where crusted with ice ; but now a sudden turning brought me full upon 
an enormous bank, completely blocking the road, which here skirted 
the edge of a high precipice. Had a sentinel suddenly barred my way 
with his bayonet, I could not have been more astonished. I was brought 
to a dead stand. I looked over the parapet, then at the snow-bank, then 
at the mountain. The first look made me shudder, the second thought- 
ful, the third gave me a headache. 

At this spot the side of the mountain was only a continuation of the 
precipice, bent slightly backward from the perpendicular, and ascending- 
several hundred feet higher. The snow, extending a hundred feet or 
more above, and conforming nearly with the slope of the mountain, filled 
the road for thrice that distance. I saw that it was only prevented froi-n 
sliding into the valley by the low wall of loose stones at the edge of the 
road ; but how long would that resist the great pressure upon it t The 
snow-bank had already melted at its edges, so that I could crawl some 
distance underneath, and hear the drip of water above and below, show- 
ing that it was being steadily undermined. In fact, the whole mass 
seemed on the point of precipitating itself over the precipice. I could 
neither go around it nor under it ; so much was certain. 

What to do } I had only a strong umbrella, the inseparable coni- 
panion of my mountain jaunts, and the glacier was as steep as a roof. 
What assurance was there that if I ventured upon it the whole sheet, 
dislodged by my weight, might not be shot off the mountain side, carry- 
ing me with it to the bottom of the abyss ? But while I felt no desire 
to add mine to the catalogue of victims already claimed by the moun- 

one of the employes of the Cafiage-road Company assured them that there was no bad place 
below that, and that he thought it would be safe for them to resume their seats with the 
driver, who was with them. Soon after passing the Half- Way House, in driving around a curve 
too rapidly, the carriage was overset, throwing the occupants into the woods and on the rocks. 
Mrs. Ira Chichester, of Allegan. Michigan, was instantly killed, her husband, who was sitting 
at her side, being only slightly bruised. Of the other occupants, several were more or less 
injured. The injured were brought at once to the Glen House, and received every possible 
care and attention. Lindsey, the driver, was taken up insensible. He had been on the road 
ten years, and was considered one of the safest and most reliable drivers in the mountains." 



ASCENT BY THE CARRIAGE-ROAD. 185 

tain, the idea of being turned back was inadmissible. Native caution 
put the question, " Will you ?" and native persistency answered, " I will." 

When a thing is to be done, the best way is to do it. I therefore 
tried the snow, and, finding a solid foothold, resolved to venture ; had it 
been soft, I should not have dared. Using my umbrella as an alpen- 
stock, I crossed on the parapet, where the declivity was the least, and 
without accident, but slowly and breathlessly, until near the opposite 
side, when I passed the intervening space in two bounds, alighting in 
the road with the blood tingling to my fingers' ends. 

A sharp turn around a ledge, and the south-east wall of Tuckerman's 
Ravine rose up, like a wraith, out of the forest. Nearer at hand was the 
head of Huntington's, while to the right the cone of Washington loomed 
grandly more than a thousand feet higher. A little to the left you look 
down into the gloomy depths of the Pinkham defile, the valley of Ellis 
River, the Saco Valley to North Conway, where the familiar figure of 
Kearsarge is the presiding genius. The blue course of the Ellis, which 
is nothing but a long cascade, the rich green of the Conway intervales, 
the blanched peak of Chocorua, the sapphire summits of the Ossipee 
Mountains, were presented in conjunction with the black and humid 
walls of the ravine, and the iron -gray mass of the great dome. The 
crag on which I stood leans out over the mountain like a bastion, from 
which the spectator sees the deep -intrenched valleys, the rivers which 
wash the feet of the monarch, and the long line of summits which par- 
take his grandeur while making it all the more impressive.' 

Turning now my back upon the Glen, the way led in the opposite 
direction, and began to look over the depression between Clay and Jef- 
ferson into the world of blue peaks beyond. From here the striking 
spectacle of the four great northern peaks, their naked summits, their 
sides seamed with old and new slides, and flecked with snow, constantly 
enlarged. There were some terrible rents in the side of Clay, red as 
half-closed wounds; in one place the mountain seemed cloven to its 
centre. It was of this gulf that the first climber said it was such a 
precipice he could scarce discerri to the bottom. The rifts in the walls 
of the ravine, the blasted fir-trees leaning over the abvss, and clutching 



' A stone bench, known as Willis's Seat, has been fi.xed in the parapet wall at the e-xtreme 
southern angle of the road, between the sixth and seventh miles. It is a fine lookout, but will 
need to be carefully searched for. 

26 



l86 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

the rocks with a death-gripe, the rocks themselves, tormented, formidable, 
impending, astound by their vivid portrayal of the formless, their sugges- 
tions of the agony in which these mountains were brought forth. 

I was now fairly upon the broad, grass-grown terrace at the base of 
the pinnacle, sometimes called the Cow Pasture. The low peak rising 
upon its limits is a monument to the fatal temerity of a traveller who, 
having climbed, as he supposed, to the top of the mountain, died from 
hunger or exposure, or from both, at this inhospitable spot.^ A skeleton 
in rags was found, at the end of a vear, huddled under some rocks. 
Farther clown the mountain a heap of stones indicates the place where 
Doctor Ball, of Boston, was found by the party sent in search of him, 
famished, exhausted, and almost delirious. When rescued, he had passed 
two nights upon the mountain, without food, fire, or shelter, after as 
many days of fruitless wandering up and down, always led astray by 
his want of knowledge, and mocked by occasional glimpses of snowy 
peaks above, or the distant Glen below. INIore dead than alive, he was 
supported down the mountain as far as the camp at The Ledge, whence 
he was able to ride to the Glen House. His reappearance had the effect 
of one risen from the dead. In reality, the rescuing party took up with 
them materials for a rude bier, expecting to find a dead body stiffening 
in the snow." 

Besides this almost unheard of resistance to hunger, cold, and ex- 
haustion combined, and notwithstanding the fortitude which enabled the 
lost man to continue his desperate struggle for life until rescued, all 
would doubtless have been to no purpose without the aid of an umbrella, 
which, by a lucky chance, he took at setting out. This umbrella was 
his only protection during the two terrible vigils he made upon the 
mountain. How, is related in the chapter on the ascent from Craw- 
ford's. 

Crossing the terrace, where even the road seems glad to rest after 
its laborious climb of seven miles, and where the traveller may also relax 
his efforts, preparatory to his arduous advance up the pinnacle, I came 
upon the railway, still solidly embedded in snow and ice. 

Still making a route for itself among massy blocks, tilted at ev- 
ery conceivable angle, but forming, nevertheless, a symmetrical cone. 



' Benjamin Chandler, of Delaware, in August, 1856. 

' Dr. B. L. Ball's "Three Days on the White Mountains." in October, 1S55. 



^1 S CENT BY THE CA K R I AG E R OAD. 



187 



the carriage -road winds up the steep ascent, to which tlie railway is 
nailed. While traversing the plateau, with the Summit House now in 
full view, my eye caught, far above me, the figure of a man pacing up 
and down before the building, like a sentinel on his post. I swung my 
hat in the air; again; but he did not see me. Nevertheless, I experi- 





WINTER STORM ON THE SUMMIT. 



enccd a thrill of pleasure at seeing him, so acutely had the sense of 
loneliness come over me in these awful solitudes. It put such vigor 
into my steps that in half an hour I crossed the last rise, when the soli- 
tary pedestrian, making an about-face at the end of his beat, suddenly 



l88 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

discovered a strange form and figure emerging from the roclcs before 
him. He stopped short, took the pipe from his teeth, looking with 
open-mouthed astonishment, then, as I continued to approach, he hast- 
ened toward me, met me half-wav, and, between rapid questions and an- 
swers, led the wav into the signal station. 

Behold me installed in the cupola of New England ! While I was 
resting, my host, a tall, bronzed, bearded man, bustled about the two or 
three apartments constituting this swallow's nest. He put the kettle 
on the stove, gave the fire a stir, spread a cloth upon the table, and took 
some plates, cups, and saucers from a locker, some canned meats and 
fruit from a cupboard, I, meanwhile, following all these movements with 
an interest easily imagined. His preparations completed, my host first 
ran his eye over them approvingly, then, presenting a pen, requested me 
to inscribe my name in the visitors' book. I did so, noticing that the 
last entry was in October — that is, five months had elapsed since the 
last climber wended his solitary way down the mountain. My hospita- 
ble entertainer then, with perfect politeness, begged me to draw my 
chair to the table and fall to. I did not refuse. While he poured out 
the tea, I asked. 

" Whom have I the pleasure of addressing ?" and he modestly re- 
plied, 

'■ Private Doyle, sir, of the United States Signal Service. Have an- 
other bit of devilled ham .^ No.^ Try these peaches." 

" Thank you. At least Uncle Sam renders your exile tolerable. Is 
this your ordinary fare ?" 

" Oh, as to that, you should see us in the dead of winter, chopping 
our frozen meat with a hatchet, and our lard with a chisel." 

This, then, was what my young Jehu had meant. Where was 1 1 I 
glanced out of the window. Nothing but sky, nothing but rocks ; im- 
mensity and desolation. I disposed my ideas to hear my companion 
ask, " Wliat is the news from the other world T 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 189 



VIII. 

MO UN T J I 'A S HINGT O N. 

The soldiers from the mountain Theches ran from rear to front. breal<ing their ranks, crowd- 
ing tumuUuously upon each other, laughing and shouting. "The sea! the seal" — Xenophon's 
Anabasis. 

AFTER the repast we walked out, Private Doyle and I, upon the 
narrow platform behind the house. According to every appear- 
ance I had reached Ultima Thulc. 

For some moments — moments not to be forgotten — we stood there 
silent. Neither stirred. The scene was too tremendous to be grasped 
in an instant. A moment was needed to recover one's moral equipoise, 
as well as for the unpractised eye to adjust itself to the vastness of the 
landscape, and to the multitude of objects, strange objects, everywhere 
confronting it. My own sensations were at first too vague for analysis, 
too tumultuous for expression. The flood choked itself. 

All seemed chaos. On every side the great mountains fell away like 
mists of the morning, dispersing, receding to an endless distance, dimin- 
ishing, growing more and more vague, and finally vanishing on a limit- 
less horizon neither earth nor sky. Never before had such a spectacle 
offered itself to my gaze. The first idea was of standing on the thresh- 
old of another planet, and of looking down upon this world of ours out- 
spread beneath ; the second, of being face to face with eternity itself. 
No one ever felt exhilaration at first. The scene is too solemnizing. 

But by degrees order came out of this chaos. The bewildering 
throng of mountains arranged itself in chains, clusters, or families. Hills 
drew apart, valleys opened, streams twinkled in the sun, towns and vil- 
lages clung to the skirts of the mountains or dotted the rich meadows; 
but all was mysterious, all as yet unreal. 

Comprehending at last that all New England was under my feet, I 
began to search out certain landmarks. Hut this investigation is fatigu- 



190 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

ing: besides, it conducts to nothing — absolutely nothing. Pointing to a 
scrap of blue haze in the west, my companion observed, " That is Mount 
Mansfield;" and I, mechanically, repeated, "Ah ! that is Mount Mansfield." 
It was nothing. Distance and Infinity have no more relation than Time 
and Eternity. It sufficed for me, God knows, to be admitted near the per- 
son of the great autocrat of New England, while under skies so fair and 
■radiant he gave audience to his imposing and splendid retinue of moun- 
tains. 

But still, independent of the will, the eye flitted from peak to peak, 
from summit to summit, making the slow circuit of this immense horizon, 
hovering at last over a band of white gleaming far away in the south- 
east like a luminous cloud, on whose surface objects like birds reposed. 
It was the sea, and the specks ships sailing on the main. With the aid 
of a telescope we could even tell what sails the vessels carried. In these 
few seconds the eye had put a girdle of six hundred miles about.' 

I consider this first introduction to what the peak of Mount Wash- 
ington looks down upon an epoch in any man's life. I saw the whole 
noble company of mountains from highest to lowest. I saw the deep 
depressions through which the Connecticut, the Merrimac, the Saco, the 
Androscoggin, wind toward the lowlands. I saw the lakes which nurse 
the infant tributaries of those streams. I saw the great northern forests, 
the notched wall of the Green Mountains, the wide expanse of level land, 
flat and heavv like the ocean, and finally the ocean itself. And all this 
was mingled in one mighty scene. 

The utmost that I can say of this view is that it is a marvel. You 
receive an impression of the illimitable such as no other natural specta- 
cle — no, not even the sea — can give. Astonishm.ent can go no farther. 
Nevertheless, the truth is that you are on too high a view-point for the 
most effective grasp of mountain scenery. This immense height renders 
near objects indistinct, obscures the more distant. Seldom, indeed, is the 
land seen, even under favoring conditions, except through a soft haze, 
which, 3-ou are surprised to notice, becomes more and more transparent 
as you descend. The eye explores this clair-obscur, and gradually dis- 

' Considering the pinnacle of Mount Washington as the centre of a circle of vision, the 
greatest distance I have been able to see with the naked eye. in nine ascensions, did not prob- 
ably much exceed one hundred miles. This being half the diameter, the circumference would 
surpass six hundred miles. It is now considered settled that Katahdin. one hundred and sixty 
miles distant, is not visible from Mount Washin^on. 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 191 

cerns this or that object. It is true that you see to a great distance, 
but you do not distinguish anything clearly. This is the rule, derived 
from many observations, to which the crystal air of autumn and winter 
makes the rare and fortunate exception. 

There is a more cogent reason why the view from Mount Washington 
is inferior to that from other and lower summits. Everything is below 
you, and, naturally, therefore, any picture of these mountains not showing 
the cloud-capped dome of the monarch, attended by his cortege of grand 
peaks — the central, dominating, perfecting group — must be essentially in- 
complete. Imagine Rome without St. Peter's, or, to come nearer home, 
Boston without her State House! One word more: from this lofty height 
you lose the symmetrical relation of the lesser summits to the grand 
whole. Even these signal embodiments of heroic strength — the peaks of 
Jefferson, Adams, and Madison — so vigorously self-asserting that what 
they lose in stature they gain by a powerful individuality, even these suf- 
fer a partial eclipse ; but the summits stretching to the southward are so 
dwarfed as to be divested of any character as typical mountain structures. 
What fascinates us is the " sublime chaos of trenchant crests, of peaks 
shooting upward ;" and the charm of the view — such at least is the writ- 
er's conviction — resides rather in the immediate surroundings than in the 
extent of the panorama, great as that unquestionably is. 

One thing struck me with great force — the enormous mass of the 
mountain. The more you realize that the dependent peaks, stretching 
eight miles north, and as many south, are nothing but buttresses, the 
more this prodigious weight amazes. Two long spurs, divided by the 
valley of the Rocky Branch, also descend into the Saco Valley as far 
as Bartlett ; and another, shorter, but of the same indestructible masonry, 
is traced between the valleys of the Ammonoosuc and of Israel's River. 
In a word, as the valleys lie and the roads run, we must travel sixty or 
seventy miles around in order to make the circuit of Mount Washington 
at its base. 

Even here one is not satisfied if he sees a stone ever so little above 
him.^ The best posts for an outlook, after the signal station, are upon a 



' The highest point, formerly indicated by a cairn and a beacon, is now occupied by an 
observatory, built of planks, and, of course, commanding the whole horizon. It is desirable to 
examine this vast landscape in detail, or so much of it as the eye embraces at once, and no 



more. 



192 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

point of rocks behind tlie old Tip-Top House, and from tlie end of the 
hotel platform, where the railway begins its terrifying descent. From all 
these situations the view was large and satisfying. From the first sta- 
tion one overlooks the southern summits ; from the second, the northern. 
A movement of the head discloses, in turn, the ocean, the lakes and 
lowlands of Maine and New Hampshire, the broad highlands of Mas- 
sachusetts, the fading forms of Monadnock and Wachusett, the highest 
peaks of Vermont and New York, and, finally, the great Canadian wilder- 
ness. 

After all this, the eye dwells upon the hideous waste of rock black- 
ened by ages of exposure, corroded with a green incrustation, like verd- 
antiqne, constituting the dome. It is at once mournful and appalling. 
Time has dealt the mountain some crushing blows, as we see by these 
ghastly ruins, bearing silent testimony to their own great age. It is 
necessary to step with care, for the rocks are sharp -edged. The green 
appearance is due to lichens which bespatter them. Greedy little spi- 
ders inliabit them. Truly this is a spot disinherited by Nature. 

Noticing many boards scattered helter-skelter about the top and sides 
of the mountain, I drew my companion's attention to them, and he ex- 
plained that what I saw was the result of the great January gale, which 
had blown down the shed used as an engine-house, demolished every 
vestige of the walk leading from the hotel to the signal station, and dis- 
tributed the fragments as if they had been straws far and wide, as I saw 
them. 

The same gale had swept the coast from Hatteras to Canso with 
destructive fury. I begged Private Doyle to give me his recollections 
of it. We returned to the station, and he began as follows : 

" At the time of the tornado I was sick, and my comrade. Sergeant 

M , who is now absent on leave, had to do mv turn as well as his 

own. 'Uncle Sam,' you know, keeps two of us here, for fear of acci- 
dents."' 

" It surprised me to find you here alone," I assented. 

" This is the third day." Then, resuming his narrative, " During the 
forenoon preceding the gale we observed nothing very unusual ; but the 
clouds kept sinking and sinking, until, in the afternoon, the summit alone 



■ One poor fellow (Private Stevens) did die here in 1S72. His comrade remained one day 
and two nights alone with the dead body before help could be summoned from below. 



A/ O L'XT U'A SH/JVG TON. 



19; 



was above them. For miles around nothing could be seen but one vast 
ocean of frozen vapor, with peaks sticking out here and there, like ice- 
bergs floating in this ocean — all being cased in snow and ice. I can- 
not tell you how curious this was. Later in the day the density of the 
clouds became such that they reflected the colors of the spectrum : and 
that too was beautiful beyond description. It was about this time Ser- 
geant M came to where I was lying, and said, ' There is going to be 

the devil to pay ; so I guess I'll make everything snug.' 

" By nine in the evening the wind had increased to one hundred 
miles an hour, with heavy sleet, so that no observation could be safely 
made from without. At midnight the velocity of the storm was one 
hundred and twenty miles, and the exposed thermometer recorded 24° 
below zero. We could hardly get it above freezing inside the house. 
With the sto\-e red, water froze within three feet of the fire ; in fact, 
where you are now sitting. 

"At this time the uproar outside was deafening. About one o'clock 
the wind rose to one hundred and fifty miles. It was now blowing a 
hurricane. That carpet (indicating the one in the room where we were) 
stood up a foot from the floor, like a sail. The wind, gathering up all 
the loose ice on top of the mountain, dashed it against the house in one 
continuous volley. I lay wondering how long we should stand this ter- 
rific pounding, when all at once there came a crash. M shouted to 

me to get up ; but I had tumbled out in a hurry on hearing the glass 
go. You see I was ready-dressed, to keep myself warm in bed. 

" Our united efforts were hardly ecjual to closing the storm-shutters 
from the inside ; but we succeeded, finally, though the lights were out, 
and we worked in the dark." He rose in order to show me how the 
shutters, made of thick oak planks, were secured by a bar, and by strong 
wooden buttons screwed in the window-frame. 

"We had scarcely done this," resumed Doyle, "and were shivering 
over the fire, when a heavy gust of wind again burst open the shutters 
as easy as if they had never been fastened at all. We sprang to our 
feet. After a hard tussle we again secured the windows by nailing a 
cleat to the floor, against which we fixed one end of a board, using the 
other end as a lever. You understand V I nodded. " Well, even then 
it was all we could do to force the shutters back into place. But we 
did it. We had to do it. 

"The rest of the night was passed in momentary expectation that 

27 



194 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAIXS. 



the building would be blown over into Tuckerman's Ravine, and we 
with it. At four in the morning the wind registered one hundred and 
eio-htv-six miles. It had shifted then from east to north-east. From this 
time it steadily fell to ten miles at nine o'clock — as calm as a daisy. 

This was the heaviest blow ever 
experienced on the mountain." 

" Suppose this house had gone, 
and the hotel stood fast, could you 
have effected an entrance into the 
hotel .''" I asked. 

'■ No, indeed. We could not 
have faced the wind." 

" Not for a hundred feet, and 
^y in a matter of life 

and death T 

" In that gale ? 
We should have 
been lifted clean 
off our feet and 
smashed upon the 
rocks like this bot- 
tle," flinging one 
out at the door. 

" So then for 
all those hours you 
expected from one 
moment to anoth- 
er to be swept into 
eternity .'" 

" We did what 

we could. Each of 

us wrapped himself 

up in blankets and 

quilts, tying these 

tightly around him with ropes, to which were attached bars of iron, so 

that if the house went by the board we might stand a chance — a slim 

one — of anchoring, somehow, somewhere." 

I tried to make him admit that he was afraid ; but he would not. 




TUB TORNADO KORCINC AN ENTKAN( 1 



M OUNT WA SHI N GTO N. 



'95 



Only he forgot, he said, in the excitement of that terrible night, that he 
was ill, until the danger was over. 

" We are going to have a blow," observed Doyle, glancing at the ba- 
rometer — " barometer falling, wind rising. Besides, that blue haze, creep- 
ing over the valley, is a pretty sure sign of a change of weather." His 
prognostic was completely verified in the course of a few hours. 

" Now," said Doyle, rising, " I must go and feed my chick." 

We retraced our steps to the point of rocks overhanging the south- 
ern slope, where he stopped and began to scatter crumbs, I watching him 
curiously meanwhile. Pretty soon he went down on his hands and 
knees and peered underneath the rocks. " Ah !" he exclaimed, with vi- 
vacity, " there you are !" 

" What is it .''" I asked ; " what is there T 

" My mouse. He is rather shy, and knows I am not alone," he re- 
plied, chirruping to the animal with affectionate concern. 

Brought to the mountain top in some barrel or box, the little stow- 
away had become domesticated, and would come at the call of his human 
playmate. The incident was trifling enough of itself, yet there was some- 
thing touching in this companionship, something that sharply recalled 
the sense of loneliness I had myself experienced. In reality, the dispari- 
ty between the man and the mouse seemed not greater than that be- 
tween the mountain and the man. 

While we were standing among the rocks the sun touched the west- 
ern horizon. The heavens became obscured. All at once I saw an im- 
mense shadow striding across the valley below us. .Slowly and majes- 
tically it ascended the Carter chain until it reached the highest summit. 
I could not repress an exclamation of surprise ; but what was my aston- 
ishment to see this immense phantom, without pausing in its advance, 
lift itself into the upper air to an incredible height, and stand fixed and 
motionless high above all the surrounding mountains. It was the 
shadow of Mount Washington projected upon the dusky curtain of the 
sky. All the other peaks seemed to bow their heads by a sentiment of 
respect, while the actual and the spectre mountain exchanged majestic 
salutations. Then the vast gray pyramid retreated step by step into the 
thick shades. Night fell. 

The expected storm which the observer had predicted did not fail to 
put in an appearance. By the time wc reached the house the wind had 
risen to forty miles an hour, driving the clouds in an unbroken ilight 



196 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

against the summit, from wliicli the}' rebounded with rage equal to tliat 
displayed in their vindictive onset. The Great Gulf was like the crater 
of some mighty volcano on the eve of an eruption, vomiting forth vol- 
umes of thickening cloud and mist. It seemed the mustcring-place of 
all the storm-legions of the Atlantic, steadily pouring forth from its black 
jaws, unfurling their ghostly standards as they advanced to storm the 
battlements of the mountain. Occasionally a break in the column dis- 
closed the opposite peaks looming vast and black as midnight. Then 
the effect was indescribable. At one moment everything seemed resolv- 
ing into its original elements ; the next I was reminded of a gigantic 
mould, not from mortal hands, in which all these vast forms were slowly 
cooling. The moon shed a pale, wan light over this unearthly scene, in 
which creation and annihilation seemed confusedly struggling. The sub- 
lime drama of the Fourth Day, when light was striving with darkness for 
its allotted place in the universe, seemed enacting under my eyes. 

The evening passed in comparative quiet, although the gale was now 
moving from east to west at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Rain rattled 
on the roof like shot. Now and then the building shuddered and creaked, 
like a good ship breasting the fury of the gale. Vivid flashes of lightning 
made the well-lighted room momentarily dark, and checked conversation 
as suddenly as if we had felt the electric shock. Under such novel con- 
ditions, with strange noises all about him, one does not feel quite at ease. 
Nevertheless the kettle sung on the stove, the telegraph instrument 
ticked on the table. We had Fabyan's, Littleton, and White River Junc- 
tion within call. Wc had plenty of books, the station being well fur- 
nished from voluntary gifts of the considerate -benevolent. At nine 
Doyle went out. but immediately returned and said he had something to 
show me. I followed him out to the platform behind the house. A 
forest fire had been seen all day in the direction of Fabyan's, but at night 
it looked like a burning lake sunk in depths of infernal blackness. I 
had never seen anything so nearly realizing my idea of hell. No other 
object was visible — only this red glare as of a sun in partial eclipse shin- 
ing at the bottom of an immense hole. We watched it a few minutes 
and then went in. I attempted to be cheerful, but how was one to rise 
above such surroundings.? Alternately the storm roared and whined for 
admittance. Worn out with the tension, physical and moral, of this day, 
I crept into bed and tried to shut the storm out. The poor exile in the 
next room murmured to himself. "Ah, this horrible solitude!" 



M O UN T IF A S HIN GTON. 



197 



Tlic next morning, while looking down from this eagle's nest upon 
the southern peaks to where the bridle-path could be distinctly traced 
across the plateau, and still winding on around the peaked crest of Mon- 
roe, I was seized with a longing to explore the route which on a former 
occasion proved so difficult, but to-day presenting apparently nothing 
more serious than a fatiguing scramble up and down the cone. Accord- 
ingly, taking leave of my companion, I began to feel my way down that 
cataract of granite, fallen, it would seem, from the skies/ 

In proportion as I descended, the mountain ridge below regained, little 
by little, its actual character. Except where patches of snow mottled it 
with white, it displayed one uniform and universal tinge of faded orange 
where the soft sunshine fell full upon it, toned into rusty brown when 
overshadowed, gradually deepening to an intense blue-black in the ravines. 
But so insignificant did the summits look, when far below, that I hardly 
recognized them for the same I had seen from Fabyan's and had trav- 
ersed from Crawford's. Monroe, the nearest, has, however, a most strik- 
ing resemblance to an enormous petrified wa\-e on the eve of dashing it- 
self down into the valley. The lower you descend the stronger this im- 
pression becomes ; but from the summit of Mount Washington this peak 
is so belittled that the mountains seemed saying to each other, " Good- 
morning, Mole-hill!" "Good-morning, Big Bully!" 

When I reached the stone -corral, the ground, if ground it can be 
called, descended less abruptly, over successive stony terraces, to a com- 
parative level, haired over with a coarse, wiry, and tangled grass, strewed 
with bowlders, and inundated along its upper margin by torrents of 
stones. Upon closer inspection these stones arranged themselves in ir- 
regular semicircular ridges. In the eyes of the botanist and entomolo- 
gist this seemingly arid region is more attractive than the most beautiful 
gardens of the valley. Among these grasses and these stones lie hid the 
beautiful Alpine flowers of which no species exist in the lowlands. Only 
the arbutus, which puts forth its pink -and -white flowers earliest of all, 
and is warmed into life by the snows, at all resembles them in its habits. 
Over this grassy plain the wind swept continually and roughly; but on 

' It was for a long time believed that the summit of Mount Washington bore no marks 
of the great Glacial Period, which the lamented Agassiz was the first to present in his great 
work on the glaciers of the Alps. Such was the opinion of Dr. C. T. Jackson, State Geologist 
of New Hampshire. It is now announced that Professor C. H. Hitchcock has detected the 
presence of transported bowlders not identical with the rocks in place. 



igS THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

putting the grass aside with the hand, the tiny blossoms greet you with 
a smile of bewitching sweetness. 

These areas, extending between and sometimes surrounding the high 
peaks, or even approaching their summits, are the " lawns '" of the bota- 
nist, and his most interesting field of research. Within its scope about 
fifty species of strictly Alpine plants vegetate. As we ascend the moun- 
tain, after the dwarf trees come the Lapland rhododendron, Labrador 
tea, dwarf birch, and Alpine willows, which, in turn, give place to the 
Greenland sandwort, diapensia, cassiope, and other plants, with arctic 
rushes, sedges, and lichens, which flourish on the very summit. 

To the left, this plain, on which the grass mournfully rustled, sloped 
gently for, I should guess, half a mile, and then rolled heavily off, over 
a grass-grown rim, into Tuckerman's Ravine. In this direction the Car- 
ter Mountains appeared. Beyond, stretching away out of the plain, ex- 
tended the long Boott's Spur, over which the Davis path formerly as- 
cended from the valley of the Saco, but which is now, from long disuse, 
traced with difficulty. Between this headland and Monroe opened the 
valley of Mount Washington River, the old Dry River of the carbuncle 
hunters, which the eye followed to its junction with the Saco, beyond 
which the precipices of Frankenstein glistened in the sun, like a corse- 
let of steel. Oakess Gulf cuts deeply into the head of the gorge. The 
plain, the ravine, the spur, and the gulf transmit the names of those 
indefatigable botanists, Bigclow, Tuckerman, Boott, and Oakes. 

On the other side of the ridge — for of course this plain has its ridge 
— the ground was more broken in its rapid descent toward the Ammon- 
oosuc Valley, into which I looked over the right shoulder of Monroe. 

But what a sight for the rock-wearied eye was the little Lake of the 
Clouds, cuddled close to the hairy breast of this mountain ! On the 
instant the prevailing gloom w-as lighted as if by magic by this dainty 
nursling of the clouds, which seemed innocently smiling in the face of 
the hideous mountain. And the stooping monster seemed to regard 
the little waif, lying there in its rocky cradle, with astonishment, and to 
forego his first impulse to strangle it where it lay. Lion and lamb were 
lying down together. 

Casting an eye upward, and finding the houses on the summit were 
hidden by the retreating curvature of the cone, I saw, with chagrin, light 
mists scudding over my head. It was a notice to hasten my movements 
idle to disregard here. Crossing as rapidly as possible Bigelow's Lawn 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 199 

— the half-mile of grass ground referred to, where I sunk ankle -deep in 
moss, or stumbled twenty times in as many rods over concealed stones 
— I skirted the head of the chasm for some distance. But from above 
the ravine does not make a startling impression. I, however, discovered, 
lodged underneath its walls, a bank of snow. All around I heard water 
gurgling under my feet in rock -worn channels while making its way 
tranquilly to the brow of the ravine. These little underground runlets 
are the same that glide over the head-wall, and are the head tributaries 
of the Ellis.' 

Retracing my way to the ridge and to the path, which I followed 
for some distance, startling the silence with an occasional halloo, I de- 
.scended into the hollow, where the Lake of the Clouds seems to have 
checked itself, white and still, on the very edge of the tremendous gully, 
cut deep into the western slopes. The lake is the fountain-head of the 
Ammonoosuc. Its waters are too cold to nourish any species of fishes ; 
they are too elevated for any of the feathered tribe to pay it a visit. 

Strange spectacle! A fairy haunt, rock -rimmed and fringed about 
with Alpine shrubs, half-disclosing, half-concealing its bare bosom, coyly 
reposed on this wind-swept ridge, like " a good deed in a naughty world." 
From its crystal basin a tiny rill trickled through soft moss to the dizzy 
verge beyond, where, like some airy sprite, clothed with the rainbow and 



' In going to and returning from the ravine, I must have walked over the very spot which 
has since derived a tragical interest from the discover)', in July, 1880, of a human skeleton 
among the rocks. Three students, who had climbed up through the ravine on the way to 
the summit, stumbled upon the remains. Some fragments of clothing remained, and in a 
pocket were articles identifying the lost man as Harry W. Hunter, of Pittsburg. Pennsylvania. 
This was the same person whom I had seen placarded as missing, in 1875, and who is referred 
to in the chapter on the ascent from Crawford's. A cairn and tablet, similar to those erected 
on the spot where Miss Bourne perished, had already been placed here v.'hen I last visited the 
locality, where the remains had so long lain undiscovered in their solitary tomb. An inscription 
upon the tablet gives the following details : " Henry \V. Hunter, aged twenty-two years, perished 
in a storm, September 3d, 1874, while walking from the Willey House to the summit. Remains 
found July 14th, 18S0, by a party of Amherst students." The place is conspicuous from the 
plain, and is between the Crawford Path and Tuckerman's. By going a few rods to the left, 
the Summit House, one mile distant, is in full view. This makes the third person known to 
have perished on or near the summit of Mount Washington. Young Hunter died without 
a witness to the agony of his last moments. No search was made until nearlj' a year had 
elap.scd. It proved inefTectual, and was abandoned. Thus, strangely and by chance, was 
brought to light the fact that he sunk exhausted and lifeless at the foot of the cone itself. I 
can fully appreciate the nature of the situation in which this loo adventurous but truly un- 
fortunate climber was placed. 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE M O U X T A 1 X S . 



KP^ - 



rS-WZ 




y i. 



-V- 






LAKE OF THE CLOUDS. 



tossing its white tresses to the sport of the breeze, it tripped ga}-ly over 
the grisly precipice and fell in a silvery shower from height to height. 
Where it passed, flowers, ferns, and rich herbage sprung forth upon the 
hard face of the granite. Tapering fir-trees exhaled a dewy freshness ; 
aspens quivered with the delight of its coming, and aged trees, tottering. 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 2 0I 

decrepit, piteous to see, stretched their withered limbs toward heaven. 
On it went, and still on, leaving its white robe clinging to the mountain 
side. All the forest seemed crowding forward to catch it; but, now 
reverently kissing the feet of the old trees, now saucily flinging a hand- 
ful of crystal in the faces of scowling cliffs, it eluded the embrace of the 
forest, which thrilled with its musical laughter from lowest deeps to the 
summit of high -rocking pines. When it was no longer visible a sono- 
rous murmur heralded its triumphal progress. No wonder the bewil- 
dered eye roved from bleak summit to voluptuous vale ; from the hand- 
ful of drops above to the brimming river below. The miracle of Horeb 
was being repeated hour by hour, like an affair of every-day life. 

This hand-mirror of Venus has two tiny companion pools close by. 
The weary explorer may sip a draught of sweetest savor while admiring 
their exceeding beauty— a beauty heightened by its unexpectedness, and 
teaching that not all is barren even here. A benison on those little 
lakes ! 

Stone houses of refuge are much needed on the mountains over which 
the Crawford trail reaches the summit. They should alv\'ays be provided 
with fagots for a fire, clean straw or boughs for a bed, and printed direc- 
tions for the inexperienced traveller to follow. A fireplace, furnished 
with a crane and a kettle for heating water, would be absolute luxuries. 
Being done, this glorious promenade— the equal of which does not exist 
in New England— would be taken with confidence by numbers, instead 
of, as now, by the few. It is the appropriate pendant of the ascent from 
the Glen by the carriage -road, or from Fabyan's by the railway. One 
can hardly pretend to have seen the mountains in their grandest aspects 
until he has threaded this wondrous picture-gallery, this marvellous hall 
of statues.' 

While recrossing the plateau, from which Washington has the ap- 
pearance of one mountain piled upon another, I suddenly came upon 
a dead sparrow in my path. Poor little fellow ! he was too adventurous, 
and sunk on stiffening pinions beneath the frozen wind. Ten steps 
farther on a large brown butterfly flew up and fluttered cheerily along 
the path. Why, then, did the bird die and the butterfly live } 



' A log-hut has been built near the summit of Mount Clinton since this was written. It is 
a good deed. But the long miles over the summits remain as yet neglected. Had one existed 
at the base of Monroe, it is probable that one life, at least, mic^ht have been saved. It is on 
the plain that danger and difficulties thicken. 

28 



202 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

This mountain butterfly, which endured cold that the bird could not, 
has excited the attention of naturalists, it is said. The mountain is 
6293 feet high, and the butterflies never descend below an elevation of 
about 5600 feet. Here they "disport during the month of July of every 
year," thriving upon the scanty deposits of honey found in the flowers 
of the few species of hardy plants that grow in the crevices of the rocks 
at this great altitude, and upon other available liquid substances. The 
insect measures, from tip to tip of the expanded fore-wings, about one 
and eight- tenths inches. It is colored in shades of brown, with various 
bands and marblings diversifying the surface of the wings. The butter- 
fly is known to naturalists as the CEueis scmidca, and was first described, 
in 1S2S, by Thomas Say. An allied species occurs on Longs Peak and 
other elevated heights in Colorado; and another is found at Hopedale, 
Labrador; but they are confined to these widely separated localities. It 
is surmised that the butterfly, like the Alpine flora, beautifully illustrates 
the presence, or rather the advance and retreat, of the glacier. 

I took up the little winged chorister of the vale who was not able 
to make spring come to the mountain for all his warbling. Truly, was 
not the little bird's fate typical of those ambitious climbers for fame 
who, chilled to death by neglect or indifference, die singing on the 
heights ? So the sparrow's fall gave me food for reflection, during 
which I reached the little circular enclosure at the foot of the cone. 

Once more I climbed the rambling and rocky stairs leading to the 
summit ; but long before reaching it clouds were drifting above and be- 
low me. The day was to end like so many others. The crabbed old 
mountain had exhausted his store of benevolence. I hurried on down 
the Glen road. After descending a mile I heard a rumbling sound, 
deep and prolonged, like distant thunder. The thought of being over- 
taken on the mountain bv a thunder-storm made me quicken my pace 
almost to a run. On turning the corner where the snow-bank had lain, 
like a lion in the path, devoutly wishing myself well and safely over, I 
felt something rise in my throat. The bank was no longer there. Ev- 
ery vestige of it had disappeared, and, in all probability, its sudden 
plunge down the mountain was what I had taken for thunder. Ten 
minutes sooner and I should have been upon its treacherous bridge. 

I passed the Half- Way House, entered the dusk forest, where the 
tree-tops were swaying wildly to and fro, the birds flitting silently, and 
the tall pines discordantly humming, as if getting the pitch of the storm. 



Af O UN T \VA S H IN GTO N. 2 O 3 

Suddenly it grew dark. A stream of fire blinded me with its glare. 
Then a deafening peal shook the solid earth. Another and another suc- 
ceeded : Olympian salvos greeted the arrival of the storm king. 

The rain was pattering among the leaves when I emerged into the 
open vale, guided by the lights of the Glen House shining through the 
darkness. My heavy feet almost refused to carry me farther, and I 
walked like the statue in " Don Juan." 



THIRD JOURNEY. 



I. THE PEMIGEIVASSET IN JUXE 209 

II. THE ERANCONIA PASS 224 

III. THE KING OF ERANCONIA 237 

IV. ERANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD 248 

V. THE CONNECTICUT OX-BOW 256 

VI. THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES 259 

VII. MOOSEHILLOCK 267 

VIII. BETHLEHEM .' 276 

IX. JEEEERSON. AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER 291 

X. THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS 304 



THIRD JOURNEY. 
I. 

THE PEMIGEIVASSET IN JUNE. 

O child of that white-crested mountain whose springs 
Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings, 
Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shine, 
Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf-pine! 

Whittiek. 

PLYMOUTH lies at the entrance to the Pemigevvasset Valley, like 
an encampment pitched to dispute its passage. At present its de- 
sign is to facilitate the ingress of tourists. 

I am sitting at the window this morning looking down the Pemige- 
wasset Valley. It is a gray, sad morning. Wet clouds hang and droop 
heavily over. In the distance the frayed and tattered edges are rolled 
up, half -disclosing the humid outlines of the hills on the other side of 
the valley. The trees arc budded with rain -drops. Through a lattice 
of bordering foliage I look down upon the river, shrunken by drought to 
half its usual breadth, and exposing its parched bed of sand and pebbles. 
It o-ives an expiring gurgle in its stony throat. It is one of those morn- 
ings that, in spite of our philosophy, strangely affect the spirits, and are 
like a presentiment of evil. The clouds are funereal draperies; the river 
chants a dirge. 

In this world of ours, where events push each other aside with such 
appalling rapidity, perhaps it is scarcely remembered that Hawthorne 
breathed his last in this house on the night of May iSth. 1864. He who 
was born in sight of these mountains had come among them to die. 

In company with his old college mate and loving friend. General 
Pierce, he came from Centre Harbor to Plymouth the day previous to 
the sad event. Devoted friends — and few men have known more de- 
voted—had for some time seen that his days were numbered. The fire 

^9 



2IO THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

had all but gone out from his eye, which seemed interrogating the world 
of which he was already more than half an inhabitant. A presentiment 
of his approaching end seemed foreshadowed in the changed look and 
faltering step of Hawthorne himself: he walked like a man consciously 
going to his grave. Still, much was hoped — it could hardly be that 
much was expected — from this journe\-, and from the companionship of 
two men grown gray with care, each standing on the pinnacle of his 
ambition, each disappointed, but united, one to the other, by the ties of 
life-long friendship ; turning their backs upon the gay world, and walk- 
ing hand-in-hand among the sweet groves and pleasant streams like boys 
again. It was like a dream of their lost youth: the reality was no more. 

On this journey General Pierce was the watchful, tender, and sym- 
pathetic nurse. Without doubt either of these men would have died for 
the other. 

But these hopes, these cares, alas ! proved delusive. The angel of 
death came unbidden into the sacred companionship ; the shadow of his 
wings hovered over them unseen. In the night, without a sigh or a 
struggle, as he himself wished it might be, the hand of death was gently 
and kindly laid on the fevered brain and fluttering heart. In the morn- 
ing his friend entered the chamber to find only the lifeless form of Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne plunged in the .slumber that knows no awakening. 
Great heart and mighty brain were stilled forever. 

While the weather gives such inhospitable welcome let us employ 
the time by turning over a leaf from history. According to Farmer, the 
intervales here were formerly resorted to by the Indians for hunting and 
fishing. At the mouth of Baker's River, which here joins the Pemige- 
wasset, they had a settlement. Graves, bones, gun-barrels, besides many 
implements of their rude husbandry, have been discovered. Here, it is 
said, the Indians were attacked by a party of English from Haverhill, 
Massachusetts, led by Captain Baker, who defeated them, killed many, 
and destroyed a large quantity of fur. From him Baker's River receives 
its name. 

Before the French and Indian war broke out this region was debata- 
ble ground, into which only the most celebrated and intrepid white hunt- 
ers ventured. Among these was a young man of twenty -three, named 
Stark, who lived near the Amoskeag Falls, in what is now Manchester. 
In April, 1752, Stark was hunting here with three companions, one of 
whom was his brother William. They had pitched their camp on Baker's 



THE PEM IG E II'. I S .V E T IN J UNE . 2 11 

River, in the present limits of Rumncy, and were prosecuting their hunt 
with good success, when they suddenly discovered the presence of In- 
dians in their vicinity. Though it was a time of peace, they were not 
the less apprehensive on that account, and determined to change their 
position. But the Indians had also discovered the white hunters, and 
prepared to entrap them. When Stark went out very early the next 
morning to collect the traps he was intercepted and made prisoner. 
The Indians then took a position on the bank of the river to ambush 
his companions as they came down. Eastman, who was on the shore, 
next fell into their hands ; but the two others were in a canoe floating 
quietly down the stream out of reach. Stark was ordered to hail and 
decoy them to the shore. He obeyed ; but, instead of lending himself 
to the treachery, shouted to his friends that he was taken, and to save 
themselves. They instantly steered for the opposite shore, receiving a 
volley as they did so. Stinson, one of those in the boat, was shot dead ; 
but William Stark escaped through the heroism of his brother, who 
knocked up the guns of the savages as they covered him with fatal aim. 

Stark and his fellow-prisoner were taken to St. Francis by Actaeon 
and his prowling band, with whom they had had the misfortune to fall 
in. At St. Francis the Indians set Stark hoeing their corn. At first he 
cut up the corn and spared the weeds ; but this expedient not serving to 
relieve him. of the drudgery, he threw his hoc into the river, telling his 
captors that hoeing corn was the business of squaws, not of warriors. 
This answer procured him recognition among them as a spirit worthy 
of themselves. He was adopted into the tribe, and called the " Young 
Chief." The promise of youth was fulfilled. The young hunter of the 
White Mountains and the conqueror of Bennington are the same. 

The choice is open to leave the railway here and enter the moun- 
tains by the Pemigewasset Valley, or to continue by it the route which 
conducts to the summit of Mount Washington, by Bethlehem and Fa- 
byan's. To journey on by rail to the Profile House is seventy-five miles, 
while by the common road, following the Pemigewasset, the distance is 
only thirty miles. \ daily stage passes over this route, which I risk 
nothing in saying is always one of the delightful reminiscences of the 
whole journey. Deciding in favor of the last excursion, my first care 
was to procure a conveyance. 

At three in the afternoon I set out for Campton, seven miles up the 
valley, which the carriage -road soon enters upon, and which by a few 



212 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

unregarded turnings is presently as fast shut up as if its mountain gates 
had in reality swung noiselessly together behind you. Hardly had I 
recovered from the effect of the deception produced by seeing the same 
mountain first in front, next on my right hand, and then shifted over to 
the other side of the valley, when I saw, spanned by a high bridge, the 
river in violent commotion far down below me. 

The Pemigewasset, confined here between narrow banks, has cut for 
itself two deep channels through its craggy and cavernous bed ; but one 
of these being dammed for the purpose of deepening the other, the gen- 
eral picturesqueness of the fall is greatly diminished. Still, it is a pretty 
and engaging sight, this cataract, especially if the river be full, although 
you think of a mettled Arabian harnessed in a tread-mill when you look 
at it. Livermore Fall, as it is called, is but two miles from Phmouth, 
the white houses of which look hot in the same brilliant sunlight that 
falls so gently upon the luxuriant green of the valley. The feature of 
this fall is the deep water-worn chasm through which it j^lunges. 

By crossing the bridge here the left bank of the stream may be fol- 
lowed, the valley towns of Campton, Thornton, and Woodstock being 
divided by it into numerous villages or hamlets, frequently puzzling the 
uninitiated traveller, who has set out in all confidence, but who is seized 
by the most cruel perplexity, upon hearing that there are four villages 
in Campton, each several miles distant from the other. One would have 
pleased him far better. 

Crossing this bridge, and descending to the level meadow below the 
falls, I made a brief inspection of the establishment for breeding and 
stocking with trout and salmon the depleted mountain streams of New 
Hampshire. The breeding-house and basins are situated just below the 
falls, on the banks of the river. This is a work undertaken by the State, 
with the expectation of repeopling its rivers, brooks, and ponds with their 
finny inhabitants. All those streams immediately accessible from the vil- 
lages are so persistently fished by the inhabitants as to afford little sport 
to the angler from a distance, who is compelled to go farther and fare 
worse ; but the State is certainly entitled to much credit for its endeavor 
to make two trout grow where only one grew before. It is feared, how- 
ever, that the experiment of stocking the Pemigewasset with salmon will 
not prove successful. The farmers who live along the banks say that 
one of these fish is rarely seen, although the fishery is protected bv the 
most ritrid regulations. No one who has not visited the mountains be- 



THE PEMIGEW ASSET IN JUNE. 



213 




est date wnen nsning is '•••^jj'i 
permitted — and the middle j^ 
of June, can have an idea of 
the number of sportsmen every 
year resorting to the trout 
streams, or of the unheard-of 
drain upon those streams. Not 



ON IHK I'K' 



2 14 ^'^^^' HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

the least of many ludicrous sights I have witnessed was that of a man, 
weighing two hundred pounds, excitedly swinging aloft a trout weigh- 
ing less than two ounces, and this trophy he exhibited to me with un- 
feigned triumph — the butcher! This is mere slaughter, and ought not 
to be tolerated. A pretty sight is to see the breeding-trout follow you 
in your walk around the margin of their little basin to be fed from 
your hand. They are tame as pigeons and ravenous as sharks. 

Mount Prospect, in Holderness, is the first landmark of note. It 
is seen, soon after leaving Plymouth, rising from the opposite side of 
the valley, its green crest commanding a superb view of the lake region 
below, and of the lofty Franconia Mountains above. It is worth ascend- 
ing this mountain were it only to see again the beautiful islet-spotted 
Scjuam Lake and far-reaching Winnipiseogce quivering in noonday 
splendor. 

The beautiful valley is now open throughout its whole extent. Of 
course I refer only to that portion lying above Plymouth. But it is an 
anomaly of mountain valleys. Its length is about twenty-five miles, and 
its greatest width, I should judge, not more than three or four. For 
twenty miles it is almost as straight as an arrow. There is nothing to 
hinder a perfectly free and open \-iew up or down. Contrast this with 
the wilful and tortuous windings of the Ammonoosuc, or the Saco, which 
seem to grope and feel their way foot by foot along their cramped and 
crooked channels. The angle of ascent, too, is here so gradual as to be 
scarcely noticed until the foot of the mountain wall, at its head, is 
reached. True, this valley is not clothed with a feeling of overpowering 
grandeur, but it is beautiful. It is not terrible, but bewitching. 

The vista of mountains on the east side of the valley becomes every 
moment more and more extended, and more and more interesting. A 
long array of summits trending away to the north, with detached moun- 
tains heaved above the lower clusters, like great whales sporting in a 
frozen sea, is gradually uncovered. Green as a carpet, level as a floor, 
the valley, adorned with clumps of elms, groves of maples, and strips of 
tilled land of a rich chocolate brown, makes altogether a picture which 
sets the eye fairly dancing. Even the daisies, the clover, and the butter- 
cups which so plentifully spangle the meadows seem far brighter and 
sweeter in this atmosphere, nodding a playful welcome as you pass 
them by. We are in the country of flowers. 

Since passing Blair's and the bridge over the river to Campton Hoi- 



THE PEMIGEW ASSET IN JUNE. 215 

low I was on the alert for that first and most engaging view of the 
Franconia Mountains which has been so highly extolled. Perhaps I 
should say that one poetic nature has revealed it to a thousand others. 
Without doubt this landscape is the more striking because it is the first, 
and consequently deepest, impression of grand mountain scenery ob- 
tained by those upon whom at a turn of the road, and without premoni- 
tion, it flashes like the realization of some ecstatic vision. 

Half a mile below the little hamlet of West Campton the road 
crosses the point of a hill pushed well out into the valley. It is here 
that the circlet of mountains is seen enclosing the valley on all sides 
like a gigantic palisade. In one place, far away in the north, this wall 
is shattered to its centre, like the famous Breach of Roland; and through 
this enormous loop-hole we see golden mists rising above the undiscov- 
ered country beyond. We are looking through the far-famed Franconia 
Notch. On one side the clustered peaks of Lafayette lift themselves 
serenely into the sky. On the left a silvery light is playing on the 
ledges of Mount Cannon, softening all the asperities of this stern-visaged 
mountain. The two great groups now stand fully and finely exposed ; 
though the lower and nearer summits are blended with the higher by 
distance. Remark the difference of outline. A series of humps marks 
the crest-line of the group, which culminates in the oblique wall of Mount 
Cannon. On the contrary, that on the right, culminating in Lafaj-ette, 
presents two beautiful and regular pyramids, older than Cheops, which 
sometimes in early morning exactly resemble two stately monuments, 
springing alert and vigorous as the day which gilds them. At a dis- 
tance of twenty miles it demands good eyes and a clear atmosphere to 
detect the supporting lines of these pyramidal structures, which in real- 
ity are two separate mountains. Liberty and Flume. This exquisite 
landscape seldom fails of producing a rapturous outburst from those 
who are making the journey for the first time. 

There are many points of resemblance between this view and that 
of the White Mountains from Conway Corner. Both unfold at once, 
and in a single glance, the princiixU systems about which all the subor- 
dinate chains seem manceuvring under the commanding gaze of Wash- 
ington or Lafayette. 

Soon after starting it was evident that my driver's loquaciousness 
was due to his having "crooked his elbow" too often while loitering 
about Plymouth. The frequent plunge of the wheels into the ditches 



2l6 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

by the roadside, accompanied with a shower of mud, was Httle conducive 
to the cahii and free enjoyment of the beauties of the landscape. The 
driver alone was unconcerned, and as often as good fortune enabled 
him to steer clear of upsetting his passengers would articulate, thickly, 
" Don't be alarmed. Cap' : no one was ever hurt on this road." 

Silently committing myself to that Providence which is said to watch 
over the destinies of tipplers, I breathed freely only when we drew up 
at the hospitable door of the village inn, bespattered with mud, but with 
no broken bones. 

Sanborn's, at West Campton, is the old road-side inn that long ago 
swung the stag-and-hounds as its distinctive emblem. A row of superb 
maples shades the road. Here we have fairly entered the renowned 
intervales, that gleam among the darker forests or groves like patches 
of blue in a storm -clouded sky. Looking southward, across the level 
meadows, the hills of Rumney flinging up smooth, firm curves, and the 
more distant, downward -plunging outline of Mount Prospect, in Hold- 
erness, close the valley. Upon the left, where the clearings extend quite 
to the summits of the near hills, the maple groves interspersed among 
them resemble soldiers advancing up the green slopes in columns of 
attack. Following this line a little, the valley of Mad River is distin- 
guished by the deep trough through which it descends from the moun- 
tains of Waterville. And here, peering over the nearer elevations, the 
huge blue-black mass of Black Mountain flings two splendid peaks aloft. 

For a more intimate acquaintance with these surroundings the hill- 
side pasture above the school -house gives a perspective of greater 
breadth ; while that from the Ellsworth road is in some respects finer 
still. About two miles up this road the valley of the East Branch, show- 
ing the massive Mount Hancock, cicatriced with one long, narrow scar, 
is lifted into view. The other features of the landscape remain the 
same, except that Mount Cannon is now cut off by the hill rising to 
the north of us. As often as one of these hidden valleys is thus 
revealed we are seized with a longing to explore it. 

One need not push inquiry into the antecedents of Campton or the 
neighboring villages very far. The township was originally granted to 
General Jabez Spencer, of East Haddam, Connecticut, in 1761. In 176S 
a few families had come into Campton, Plymouth, Hebron, Sandwich, 
Rumney, Holderness, and Bridgewater. No opening had been made 
for civilized men on this side of Canada except for three families, who 



THE PE MI G E WA S S E T IN JUNE . 



217 




had gone fift\ 
miles into the wil- 
derness to begin a settlement where 
Lancaster now is. The name is 
derived simply froni the circumstance 
that the first proprietors built a camp 
when they visited their grant. The 

30 



WELCH MOUNTAIN, FROM MAD RIVER. 



2l8 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

different villages are much frequented by artists, who ha\-c spread the 
fame of Campton from one end of the Union to the other. But a 
serpent has entered even this Eden — the villagers are sighing for the 
advent of the railway. 

Having dedicated one day to an exploration of the Mad River Valley, 
I can pronounce it well worth any tourist's while to tarry long enough in 
the vicinity for the purpose. It is certainly one of the finest exhibitions 
of mountain scenery far or near. Here is a valley twelve miles long, at 
the bottom of which a rapid river bruises itself on a bed of broken rock, 
while above it are heaped mountains to be picked out of a thousand for 
peculiarity of form or structure. The Pemigewasset is passed by a ford 
just deep enough at times to invest the journey with a little healthy 
excitement at the very beginning. The ford has, however, been carefully 
marked by large stones placed at the edge of the submerged road. 

Fording the river and climbing the hill which lies across the en- 
trance to this land-locked valley, I was at once ushered upon a scene of 
great and varied charm. Right before me, sunning his three peaks four 
thousand feet above, was the prodigious mass of Black Mountain. Far 
up the valley it stretched, forming an unbroken wall nearly ten miles 
long, and apparently sealing all access from the Sandwich side. A 
nipple, a pyramid, and a flattened mound protruding from the summit 
ridge constitute these eminences, easily recognized from the Franconia 
highway among a host of lesser peaks. At the southern end of this 
mountain the range is broken through, giving passage to a rough and 
straggling road — fourteen hundred feet above the sea-level — to .Sand- 
wich Centre, and to the lake towns south of it. This pass is known 
as Sandwich Notch. 

Campton Village lies along the hill-sloi^e opposite to Black Mountain. 
Completely does it fill the artistic sense. Its situation leaves nothing to 
be desired in an ideal mountain village. So completely is it secluded 
from the rest of the world by its environment of mountains, that you 
might pass and repass the Pemigewasset Valley a hundred times with- 
out once surprising the secret of its existence. All those houses, half 
hid beneath gro\es of maples, bespeak luxurious repose. Opposite to 
Black Mountain, whose dark forest drapery hides the mass of the moun- 
tain, is the immense whitish-yellow rock called Welch Mountain. Only 
a scanty vegetation is suffered to creep among the crevices. It is really 
nothing but a big excrescent rock, having a principal summit shaped 



THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE. 219 

somewhat like a Martello tower; and, indeed, resembling one in ruins. 
The bright ledges brilliantly reflect the sun, causing the eye to turn 
gratefully to the sombre gloom of the evergreens crowding the sides of 
the neighboring mountains. Welch Mountain reminded me, I hardly 
know why, of Chocorua ; but the resemblance can scarcely extend far- 
ther than to the meagreness, mutually characteristic, and to the blistered, 
almost calcined ledges, which in each case catch the earliest and latest 
beams of day. In fact, I could think only of a leper sunning his .scars, 
and in rags. 

At the head of the vale, alternately coming into and retreating from 
view — for we are still progressing — is the mysterious triple -crowned 
mountain known on the maps as Tripyramid. When first seen it seems 
standing solitary and alone, and to have wrapped itself in a veil of thin- 
nest gauze. As we advance it displays the white streak of an immense 
slide, which occurred in iiSGg. This mountain is visible from the shore 
of the lake at Laconia. It is one of the first to greet us from the ele- 
vated summits, though from no point is its singularly admirable and 
well-proportioned architecture so advantageously exhibited as when ap- 
proaching bv this valley. Its northern peak stands farthest from the 
others, yet not so far as to mar the general grace and harmony of form. 
Hail to thee, mountain of the high, heroic crest, for thy fortunate name 
and the gracious, kingly mien with which thou wearest thy triple crown ! 
Prince thou art and potentate. None approach thy forest courts but do 
thee homage. 

The end of the valley was reached in two hours of very leisurely 
driving. The road abruptly terminated among a handful of houses scat- 
tered about the bottom of a deep and narrow vale. This is, beyond 
question, the most remarkable mountain glen into which civilization has 
thus far penetrated. On looking up at the big mountains one experi- 
ences a half-stifled feeling: and, on looking around the scattered hamlet, 
its dozen houses seem undergoing perpetual banishment. 

This diminutive settlement, in which signs of progress and decay 
stand side by side — progress evidenced by new and showy cottages; 
decay by abandoned and dilapidated ones— is at the edge of a region 
as shao-gy and wild as any in the famed Adirondack wilderness. It 
fairly jostles the wilderness. It braves it. It is really insolent. Yet are 
its natural resources so slender that the struggle to keep the breath in 
it must have been long and obstinate. .A wheezy saw-mill indicates 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 




t%-f 



Bl \Ck AND TRIPYRAMID MOUNTAINS. 



■y% 







at once its origin and its 
means of lutlihood; but it is ev- 
ident that it might have remained 
obscure and unknown until dooms- 
day, had not a few anglers stumbled 
upon it while in pursuit of brooks and 
waters new. 

/ < "^ ' The glen is surrounded by peaks that for 

boldness, savage freedom, and power challenge any 
that we can remember. They threaten while maintain- 
ing an attitude of lofty scorn for the saucy intruder. The curious Noon 
Peak — we have at length eot to the end of the almost endless Black 



THE PEMIGEWASSET IN JUNE. 221 

Mountain — nods familiarly from the south. It long stood for a sun-dial 
for the settlement; hence its name. Tecumseh, a noble mountain, and 
Osceola, its worthy companion, rise to the north. A short walk in this 
direction brings Kancamagus' and the gap between this mountain and 
Osceola into view. All these mountains stand in the magnificent order 
in which they were first placed by Nature ; but never does the idea of 
inertia, of helpless immobility, cross the mind of the beholder for a single 
moment. 

The unvisited region between Greeley's, in Waterville, and the Saco 
is destined to be one of the favorite haunts of the sportsman, the angler, 
and the lover of the grand old woods. It is crossed and recrossed by 
swift streams, sown with lakes, glades, and glens, and thickly set with 
mountains, among which the timid deer browses, and the bear and wild- 
cat roam unmolested. Fish and game, untamed and untrodden moun- 
tains and woods, welcome the sportsman here. With Greeley's for a base, 
encampments may be pitched in the forest, and exploration carried into 
the most out-of-the-way corners. The full zest of such a life can only 
be understood by those to whom its freedom and unrestraint, its health- 
ful and vigorous existence, have already proved their charm. The time 
may come when the mountains shall be covered with a thousand tents, 
and the summer -dwellers will resemble the tribes of Israel encamped by 
the sweet waters of Sion. 

Waterville maintains unfrequent communication with Livermore and 
the Saco by a path twelve miles long — constructed by the Appalachian 
Mountain Club — over which a few pedestrians pass every year. I have 
explored this path for several miles beyond Beckytown while visiting the 
great slide which sloughed off from the side of Tripyramid, and the cas- 
cades on the way to it. Osceola, Hancock, and Carrigain, three remark- 
ably fine mountains, offer inviting excursions to expert climbers. I was 
reluctantly compelled to renounce the intention of passing over the 
whole route, which should occupy, at least, two days or parts of days, 
one night being spent in camp. 

The Mad River drive is a delightful episode. In the way of moun- 
tain valley there is nothing like it. Bold crag, furious torrent, lonely 
cabin, blue peak, deep hollow, choked up with the densest foliage, con- 
stitute its varied and ever -changing features. The overhanging woods 



Kancamagus, the Pennacook sachem, led the Indian assault on Dover, in 1689. 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 




THE FEMIGEIVASSET IN JUNE. 223 

The remainder of the route up the Pemigcwasset is more and more 
a revelation of the august summits that have so constantly met us since 
entering this lovely valley. Boldly emerging from the mass of moun- 
tains, they present themselves at every mile in new combinations. 
Through Thornton and Woodstock the spectacle continues almost 
without intermission. Gradually, the finely -pointed peaks of the Lafay- 
ette group deploy and advance toward us. Now they pitch sharply 
down into the valley of the East Branch. Now the great shafts of stone 
are crusted with silvery light, or sprayed with the cataract. Now the 
sun gilds the slides that furrow, but do not deface them. Stay a mo- 
ment at this rapid brook that comes hastening from the west ! It is an 
envoy from yonder great, billowy mountain that lords it so proudly over 

" many a nameless slide-scarred crest 
And pine-dark gorge between." 

That is Moosehillock. Facing again the north, the road is soon swal- 
lowed up by the forest, and the forest by the mountains. A few poor 
cottages skirt the route. Still ascending, the miles grow longer and less 
interesting, until the white house, first seen from far below, suddenly 
stands uncovered at the left. We are at the Flume House, and before 
the grates of the Franconia Notch. 



224 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MO UNTAJNS. 



11. 

THE FRANCOXTA PASS. 

Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, 

The great Notch Mountains shone. 
Watched over by the solemn-browed 

And awful face of stone I — Whittier. 

WHEN Boswcll exclaimed in ecstasy, ''An immense mountain!" 
Dr. Johnson sneered, "An immense protuberance!" but he, the 
sublime cynic, became respectful before leaving the Hebrides. Charles 
Lamb, too, at one time pretended something approaching contempt for 
mountains; but, after a visit to Coleridge, he made the amende honora- 
ble in these terms : 

" I feel I shall remember your mountains to the last day of my life. 
They haunt me perpetuallv. I am like a man who has been falling in 
love unknown to himself; which he finds out when he leaves the lady." 

Notwithstanding their prepossessions against nature, and their un- 
disguised preference for the smoke and dirt of London, the mountains 
awoke something in these two men which was apparently a revelation 
of themselves unto themselves. I have felt a higher respect for both 
since I knew that they loved mountains, as 1 pity those who have only 
seen heaven through the smoke of the city. It is not easy to explain 
two ideas so essentially opposite as are presented in the earlier and 
later declarations of these widely famous authors, unless we agree, keep- 
ing " Elia's " odd simile in mind, that in the first case they should, like 
woman, be taken, not at what she savs, but what she means. 

The Flume House is the proper tarrving- place for an investigation 
of the mountain gorge from which it derives both its custom and its 
name. It is also placed opposite to the Pool, another of those natural 
wonders with which the pass is crowded, and which tempt us at every 
step to turn aside from the travelled road. 

Fronting the hotel is a belt of woods, with two massive mountains 



THE FRANCONIA PASS. 



225 



risioi^ behind. In the conceahncnt of these woods the Pemigewasset, 
contracted to a modest stream, runs along the foot of the mountains. 
A rough, zigzag path leads through the woods to the river and to the 
Pool. Now raise the eyes to the summit -ridge of yonder mountain. 
The peak finely reproduces the features of a gigantic human face, while 
the undulations of the ridge fairly suggest a recumbent human figure 
wrapped in a shroud. The outlines of the forehead and nose are curi- 
ously like the profile of Washington ; hence the colossal figure is called 
Washington Lying in State. This immortal sculpture gave rise to the 
idea that the tomb of Washington, like 
that of Desaix, on the St. Bernard, 
should be on the great summit that 
bears his name. 

From the Flume House I looked up 
through the deep cleft of the Notch — 
an impressive vista. To the left is Can- 
non, or Profile Mountain ; to the right 
the beetling crags of Eagle Cliff; then 
the pointed, shapely peaks of Lafa}-- 
ette; and so the range continues break- 
ing off and off, bending away into lesser 
mountains that finally melt into pale- 
blue shadows. Now a stray cloud atoji 
a peak gives it a volcanic character. 
Now a puff scatters it like thistle-down. 
It is a sultry summer's morning, and 
banks of film hang like huge spider's- 
webs in the tree -tops. Soon they de- 
tach themselves, and, floating lazily upward, are seized by a truant 
breeze, spun mischievously round, and then settle quietly down on the 
highest peaks like young eaglets on their nest. 

Let us first walk down to the Pool. This Pool is a caprice of the 
river. Imagine a cistern, deeply sunk in granite, receiving at one end 
a weary cascade, which seems to crave a moment's rest before hurrying 
on down the rocky pass. In the mystery and seclusion of ages, and 
with only the rude implements picked up by the way, the river has hol- 
lowed a basin a hundred feet wide and forty deep out of the stubborn 
rock. Without doubt Nature thus first taught us to cut the hardest 




2 26 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

marble with sand and water. Cliffs traversed by cracks rise a hun- 
dred feet higher. The water is a glossy and lustrous sea-green, and of 
such marvellous transparency that you see the brilliant pebbles sparkling 
at the bottom, shifting with the waves of light like bits of glass in a 
kaleidoscope. Overtopping trees lean timidly over and peer down into 
the Pool, which coldly repulses their shadows. Only the colorless hue 
of the rocks is reflected ; and the stranger, seeing an old man with a 
gray beard standing erect in a boat, has no other idea than that he has 
arrived on the borders and is to be accosted by the ferryman of Hades. 

The Flume is reached by going clown the road a short distance, and 
tlien diverging to the left and crossing the river to the Flume Brook. 
A carriage-way conducts almost to the entrance of the gorge. Then be- 
gins an easy and interesting promenade up the bed of the brook. 

This is a remarkable rock -gallery, driven several hundred feet into 
the heart of the mountain, through which an ice-cold brook rushes. 
The miracle of Moses seems repeated here sublimely. Some unknown 
power smote the rock, and the prisoned stream gushed forth free and 
lightsome as air. You approach it over broad ledges of freckled granite, 
polished by the constant flow of a thin, pellucid sheet of water to slip- 
pery smoothness. Proceeding a short distance up this natural esplanade, 
you enter a damp and gloomy fissure between perpendicular walls, ris- 
ing seventy feet above the stream, and, on lifting your eyes suddenly, 
espy an enormous bowlder tightly wedged between the cliffs. Now try 
to imagine a force capable of grasping the solid rock and dividing it in 
halves as easily as you would an apple with your two hands. 

At sight of the suspended bowlder, which seems, like Paul Pry, to 
have "just dropped in," I believe every visitor has his moment of hesita- 
tion, which he usually ends by passing underneath, paying as he goes 
with a tremor of the nerves, more or less, for his temerity. But there 
is no danger. It is seen that the deep crevice, into which the rock 
seems jammed with the especial purpose of holding it asunder, also hugs 
the intruder like a vise ; so closely, indeed, that, according to every ap- 
pearance, it must stay where it is until doomsday, unless released by 
some passing earthquake from its imprisonment. Sentimental tourists 
do not omit to find a moral in this curiosit)-, which really looks to be 
on the eve of dropping, with a loud splash, into the torrent beneath. 
On top of the cliffs I picked up a visiting-card, on which some one 
with a poetic turn had written, " Does not this bowlder remind you of 



THE FR A XC O XI A PA S S. 



227 




THE FLUME, FRANCONIA 



2 28 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

the sword of Damocles ?" To a civil question, civil reply : No ; to me 
it looks like a nut in a cracker. 

Over the gorge bends an arcade of interlaced foliage shot through 
and through with sunshine; and wherever cleft or cranny can be found 
young birches, sword-ferns, trailing vines, insinuating their long roots 
in the damp mould, garland the cold granite with tenderest green. The 
exquisite white anemone blooms in the mossy wall wet with tiny streams 
that do not run but glide unpercei\-ed down. What could be more cun- 
ning than the persistency with which these hardy waifs, clinging or 
drooping along the craggy way, draw their sustenance from the rock, 
which seems to nourish them in spite of itself.^ Underneath your feet 
the swollen torrent storms along the gorge, dashing itself recklessly 
against intruding bowlders, or else passing them with a curl of disdain. 
How gallantly it surmounts every obstacle in its way! How crystal- 
clear are its waters ! On it speeds, scattering pearls and diamonds right 
and left, like the prodigal it is ; unpolluted, as yet, by the filth of cities, 
or turned into a languid, broken-spirited drudge by dams or mill-wheels. 
'Stop me.^" it seems exclaiming. "Why, I am offspring of the clouds, 
their messenger to the parched earth, the mountain maid -of -all- work ! 
Stay; step aside here in the sun and I will show you my rainbow-sig- 
net ! When I rest, do }ou not behold the mother imaged in the features 
of the child? Stop me! Put your hand in my bosom and see how 
strong and full of life are my pulse-beats. To-morrow I shall be vapor. 
Thought is not freer. I do not belong to earth any more than the eagle 
sailing above yonder mountain-top." 

Overhead a fallen tree-trunk makes a crazy bridge from cliff to cliff. 
The sight of the gorge, with the flood foaming far below, the glitter of 
falling waters through the trees, the splendid light in the midst of deep- 
est gloom, the solemn pines — the odorous forest, the wildness and the 
coolness— impart an indescribable charm to the spot that makes us re- 
luctant to leave it. Many ladies ascend to the head of the gorge and, 
crossing on the rude bridge, leave their visiting-cards on the other side; 
one had left her pocket-handkerchief, with the scent fresh upon it. I 
picked it up, and out hopped a toad. 

After the Pool and the Flume, an ascent of the mountain behind 
the hotel will be found conducive to enjoyment of another kind. This 
mountain commands delicious views of the valley of the Pemigewasset. 
A short hour is usuallv sufficient for the climb. It was a very raw, windy 



THE FRANCO XI, I PASS. 229 

morning on which I climbed it, but the uncommon purity of the air and 
the exceeding beauty of the landscape were most rarely combined with 
cloud effects seen only in conjunction with a brisk north-west wind. I 
had taken a station similar to that occupied by Mount Willard with re- 
spect to the Saco Valley, now opening a vista essentially different from 
that most memorable one in my mountain experience. The valley is not 
tlie same. You see the undulating course of the river for many leagues, 
and but for an intercepting hill, which hides them, might distinguish 
the houses of Plymouth. The vales of Woodstock, Thornton, and Camp- 
ton, spotted with white houses, lie outspread in the sun, between enclos- 
ing mountains; and the windings of the Pemigewasset are now seen 
dark and glossy, now white with foam, appearing, disappearing, and 
finally lost to view in the blended distance. The sky was packed with 
clouds. Over the vivid green of the intervales their black shadows 
drifted swiftly and noiselessly, first turning the light on, then off again, 
with magical effect. To look up and see these clouds all in moHon, 
and then, looking down, see those weird draperies darkly trailing over 
the land, was a reminiscence of 

"The dim and shadowy armies of our unquiet dreams— 
Their footsteps brush the dewy fern and paint the shaded streams." 

The mountain ridges tiowed southward with marvellous smoothness to 
the vanishing-point, on one side of the valley bright green, on the other 
indigo blue. This picture was not startling, like that from the Crawford 
Notch, but, in its own way, was incomparable. The sunsets arc said to 
be beautiful beyond description. 

One looks up the Notch upon the great central peaks composing 
the water-shed— Cannon. Lafayette, Lincoln, and the rest— to see crao-s, 
ridges, black forests, rising before him in all their gloomy magnificence. 

On one side all is beauty, harmony, and grace; on the other, a 
packed mass of bristling, steep -sided mountains seem storming the sky 
with their gray turrets. Could we but look over the brawny shoulders 
of the mountains opposite to us, the e)-c would take in the vast, untrod- 
den solitudes of the Pemigewasset forests cut by the East Branch and 
presided over by Mount Carrigain — a region as yet reserved for those 
restless and adventurous spirits whom the beaten paths of travel have 
ceased to charm or attract. But an excursion into this "forest primeval" 
is to be no holiday promenade. It is an arduous and difficult march 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 







^^■. 



\. 




over slip- 
pery rocks, 
thiough tangled 
thickets, or up the 
beck of mountaui 
touent^ Hard fare 
_ - . " ~" and a harder bed of 

THE BASIN. boughs finish the day, 

every hour of which 
has been a continued combat witli fresh obstacles. At this price one 
may venture to encounter the virgin wilderness or, as the cant phrase is, 
"try roughing it." It is a curious feeling to turn your back upon the 
last cart-path, then upon the last foot-path; to hear the distant baying 
of a hound grow fainter and fainter — in a word, to exchange at a single 
step the sights and sounds of civilized life, the movement, the bustle, for 
a silence broken only by the hum of bees and the murmur of invisible 
waters. 

I left the Flume House in company with a young-old man, whom I 
met there, and in whom I hoped to find another and a surer pair of eyes, 
for, w^ere he to have as many as Argus, the sight-seer would find employ- 
ment for them all. 

While gayly threading the green -wood, we came upon a miniature 
edition of the Pool, situated close to the highwav, called the Basin. A 



THE FRANCO NIA PASS. 231 

basin in fact it is, and a bath fit for the gods. It is plain to see that 
the stream once poured over the smooth ledges here, instead of making 
its exit by the present channel. A cascade falls into it with hollow roar. 
This cistern has been worn by the rotary motion of large pebbles which 
the little cascade, pouring down into it from above, set and kept actively 
whirlino- and grinding at its own mad caprice. But this was not the 
work of a day. Long and constant attrition only could have scooped 
this cavity out of the granite, which is here so clean, smooth, and white, 
and filled to the brim with a grayish-emerald water, light, limpid, and in- 
cessantly replenished by the effervescent cascade. In the beginning this 
was doubtless an insignificant crevice, into which a few pebbles and a 
handful of sand were dropped by the stream, but which, having no way 
of escape, were kept in a perpetual tread-mill, until what was at first a 
mere hole became as we now see it. The really curious feature of the 
stone basin is a strip of granite projecting into it which closely resem- 
bles a human leg and foot, luxuriously cooling itself in the stream. 
Such queer freaks of nature are not merely curious, but they while away 
the hours so agreeably that time and distance are forgotten. 

As we walked on, the hills were constantly hemming us in closer 
and closer. Suddenly we entered a sort of crater, with high mountains 
all around. One impulse caused us to halt and look about us. In full 
view at our left the inaccessible precipices of Mount Cannon rose above 
a mountain of shattered stones, which ages upon ages of battering have 
torn piecemeal from it. Its base was heaped high with these ruins. 
Seldom has it fallen to my lot to see anything so grandly typical of 
the indomitable as this sorely battered and disfigured mountain citadel, 
which nevertheless lifts and will still lift its unconquerable battlements 
so long as one stone remains upon another. Hewed and hacked, riven 
and torn, gashed and defaced in countless battles, one can hardly repress 
an emotion of pity as well as of admiration. I do not recollect, in all 
these mountains, another such striking example of the denuding forces 
with which they are perpetually at war. When we see mountains crum- 
bling before our very eyes, may we not begin to doubt the stability of 
things that we are pleased to call eternal.' Still, although it seems 
erected solely for the pastime of all the powers of destruction, this one, 
so glorious in its unconquerable resolve to die at its post — this one, ex- 
posing its naked breast to the fury of its deadliest foes — so stern and 
terrific of aspect, so high and haughty, so dauntlessly throwing down 



232 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

the gauntlet to Fate itself — assures us that the combat will be long and 
obstinate, and that the mountain will fall at last, if fall it must, with the 
grace and heroism of a gladiator in the Roman arena. The gale flies 
at it with a shriek of impotent rage. Winter strips off its broidered 
tunic and flings white dust in its aged face. Rust corrodes, rains 
drench, fires scorch it; lightning and frost are forever searching out the 
weak spots in its harness ; but, still uplifting its adamantine crest, it re- 
ceives unshaken the stroke or the blast, spurns the lightning, mocks the 
thunder, and stands fast. Underneath is a little lake, which at sunset 
resembles a pool of blood that has trickled drop by drop from the deep 
wounds in the side of the mountain. 

We are still advancing in this region of wonders. In our front soars 
an insuperable mass of forest -shagged rock. Behind it rises the abso- 
lutely regal Lafayette. Our footsteps are staved bv the glimmer of 
water through trees by the road -side. We have reached the summit 
of the pass. 

Six miles of continued ascent from the Flume House have brought 
us to Profile Lake, which the road skirts. Although a pretty enough 
piece of water, it is not for itself this lake is resorted to by its thou- 
sands, or for being the source of the Pemigewasset, or for its trout — 
which you take for the reflection of birds on its burnished surface — but 
for the mountain rising high above, whose wooded slopes it so faithfully 
mirrors. Now lift the eyes to the bare summit ! It is difficult to be- 
lieve the evidence of the senses ! Upon the high cliffs of this moun- 
tain is the remarkable and celebrated natural rock sculpture of a human 
head, which, from a height twelve hundred feet above the lake, has for 
uncounted ages looked with the same stony stare down the pass upon 
the windings of the river through its incomparable valley. The profile 
itself measures about forty feet from the tip of the chin to the flattened 
crown which imparts to it such a peculiarly anticjue appearance. All 
is perfect, except that the forehead is concealed by something like the 
visor of a helmet. And all this illusion is produced by several project- 
ing crags. It might be said to have been begotten by a thunder-bolt. 

Taking a seat within a rustic arbor on the high shore of the lake, 
one is at liberty to peruse at leisure what, I dare say, is the most ex- 
traordinary sight of a lifetime. A change of position varies more or less 
the character of the expression, which is, after all. the marked peculiarity 
of this monstrous alto relievo; for let the spectator turn his gaze vacantly 



THE FRANCONIA PASS. 233 

upon the more familiar objects at hand — as he inevitably will, to assure 
himself that he is not the victim of some strange hallucination — a fasci- 
nation born neither of admiration nor horror, but strongly partaking of 
both emotions, draws him irresistibly back to the Dantesque head stuck, 
like a felon's, on the highest battlements of the pass. The more you 
may have seen, the more your feelings are disciplined, the greater the 
confusion of ideas. The moment is come to acknowledge yourself van- 
quished. This is not merely a face, it is a portrait. That is not the 
work of some cunning chisel, but a cast from a living head. You feel 
and will always maintain that those features have had a living and 
breathing counterpart. Nothing more, nothing less. 

But where and what was the original prototype ? Not man ; since, 
ages before he was created, the chisel of the Almighty wrought this 
sculpture upon the rock above us. No, not man ; the face is too ma- 
jestic, too nobly grand, for anything of mortal mould. One of the 
antique gods may, perhaps, have sat for this archetype of the coming 
man. And yet not man, we think, fur the head will surely hold the 
same strange converse with futurity when man shall have vanished from 
the face of the earth. 

This o-igantic silhouette, which has been dubbed the Old Man of 
the Mountain, is unquestionably the greatest curiosity of this or any 
other mountain region. It is unique. But it is not merely curious; 
nor is it more marvellous for the wonderful accuracy of outline than for 
the almost superhuman expression of frozen terror it eternally fixes on 
the vague and shadowy distance — a far-away look: an intense and 
speechless amazement, such as sometimes settles on the faces of the 
dying at the moment the soul leaves the body forever— untranslatable 
into words, but seeming to declare the presence of some unutterable 
vision, too bright and dazzling for mortal eyes to behold. The face 
puts the whole world behind it. It does everything but speak — nay, 
you are ready to swear that it is going to speak ! And so this chance 
jumbling together of a few stones has produced a sculpture before which 
Art hangs her head. 

I renounce in dismay the idea of reproducing the effect on the 
reader's mind which this prodigy produced on my own. Impressions 
more pronounced, yet at the same time more inexplicable, have never 
so effectually overcome that habitual self-command derived from many 
experiences of travel among strange and unaccustomed scenes. From 

32 



^34 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



the moment the startled eye catches it one is aware of a Presence 
wliich dominates the spirit, first with strange fear, tlien by that natural 
revulsion which at such moments makes the imagination supreme, con- 
ducts straight to the supernatural, there to leave it helplessly struggling 
in a maze of impotent conjecture. But, even upon this debatable 
ground, between two worlds, one is not able to surprise the secret of 
those lips of marble. The Sphinx overcomes us by his stony, his dis- 
dainful silence. Let the visitor be ever so unimpassioned, surely he 



.^\ 



~^i^ 




THE OLD MAN 01-' TlIK MOUNTAIN. 



must be more than mortal to resist the impression of mingled awe, 
wonder, and admiration which a first sight of this weird object forces 
upon him. He is, indeed, less than human if the feeling does not con- 
tinually grow and deepen while he looks. The face is so amazing, that 
I have often tried to imagine the sensations of him who first discov- 
ered it peering from the top of the mountain with such absorbed, open- 
mouthed wonder. Again I see the tired Indian hunter, pausing to slake 
his thirst by the lake -side, start as his gaze suddenly encounters this 
terrific apparition. I fancy the half-uttered exclamation sticking in his 



THE FRANCONIA PASS. . 235 

throat. I behold him standing there with bated breath, not daring to 
stir hand or foot, his white lips parted, his scared eyes dilated, until his 
own swarthy features exactly reflect that unearthly, that intense amaze- 
ment stamped large and vivid upon the li\'id rock. There he remains, 
rooted to the spot, unable to reason, trembling in every limb. For him 
there are no accidents of nature ; for him everything has its design. 
His moment of terrible suspense is hardly difficult to understand, seeing 
how careless thousands that come and go arc thrilled, and awed, and 
silenced, notwithstanding you tell them the face is nothing but rocks. 

If the effect upon minds of the common order be so pronounced, a 
first sight of the Great Stone Face may easily be supposed to act pow- 
erfully upon the imaginative and impressible. The novelist, Hawthorne, 
makes it the interpreter of a noble life. For him the Titanic counte- 
nance is radiant with majestic benignity. He endows it with a soul, 
surrounds the colossal brow with the halo of a spiritual grandeur, and, 
marshalling his train of phantoms, proceeds to pass inexorable judgment 
upon them. Another legend — like its predecessor, too long for our 
pages — runs to the effect that a painter who had resolved to paint Christ 
sitting in judgment, and who was filled with the grandeur of his subject, 
wandered up and down the great art palaces, the cathedrals of the Old 
World, seeking in vain a model which should in all things be the em- 
bodiment of his ideal. In despair at the futility of his search he hears 
a strange report, brought by some pious missionaries from the New 
World, of a wonderful image of the human face which the Indians 
looked upon with sacred veneration. The painter immediately crossed 
the sea, and caused himself to be guided to the spot, where he beheld, 
in the profile of the great White Mountains, the object of his search 
and fulfilment of his dream. The legend is entitled Christus Jtidex. 

Had Byron visited this place of awe and mystery, his " Manfred," the 
scene of which is laid among the mountains of the Bernese Alps, would 
doubtless have had a deeper and perhaps gloomier impulse ; but even 
among the eternal realms of ice the poet never beheld an object that 
could so arouse the gloomy exaltation he has breathed into that tragedy. 
His line — 

'■ Bound to earth, ho lifts his eye to heaven' — 

becomes descriptive here. 

Again and again we turn to the face. We go awa\' to wonder if it 
is still there. We come back to wonder still more. An emotion of 



236 THE HEART OE THE WHITE M O LX T A J N S . 

pity mingles with the rest. Time seems to have passed it by. It seems 
undergoing some terrible sentence. It is a greater riddle than the 
gigantic stone face on the banks of the Nile. 

All effects of light and shadow are so many changes of countenance 
or of expression. I have seen the face cut sharp and clear as an an- 
tique cameo upon the morning sky. I have seen it suffused, nay, almost 
transfigured, in the sunset glow. Often and often does a cloud rest 
upon its brow. I have seen it start fitfully out of the flying scud to be 
the next moment smothered in clouds. I have heard the thunder roll 
from its lips of stone. I recall the sunken cheeks, wet with the damps 
of its night-long vigil, glistening' in the morning sunshine — smiling 
through tears. I remember its emaciated visage streaked and crossed 
with wrinkles that the snow had put there in a night; but never have 
I seen it insipid or commonplace. On the contrary, the overhanging 
brow, the antique nose, the protruding under-lip, the massive chin, might 
belong to another Prometheus chained to the rock, but whom no pun- 
ishment could make lower his haughty head. 

I lingered by the margin of the lake watching the play of the clouds 
upon the water, until a loud and resonant peal, followed by large, warm 
drops, admonished me to seek the nearest shelter. And what thunder! 
The hills rocked. What echoes ! The mountains seemed knocking 
their stony heads together. What lightning! The very heavens cracked 
with the flashes. 

■■ Far along 
From f)eak to peak the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder I not from one lone cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the jovous Alps, who call to her aloud I" 



THE KJXG OF I^RANCONJA. 22,7 



III. 

THE KING OF FRANCONIA. 

Hills draw like heaven 
And stronger, sometimes, holding out their hands 
To pull you from the vile flats up to them. 

E. B. Browning. 

AT noon we reached the spacious and inviting Profile House, which 
is hid away in a deep and narrow glen, nearly two thousand feet 
above the sea. No situation could be more sequestered or more charm- 
ing. The place seems stolen from the unkempt wilderness that shuts it 
in. An oval, grassy plain, not extensive, but bright and smiling, spreads 
its green between a grisly precipice and a shaggy mountain. And there, 
if you will believe me, in front of the long, white-columned hotel, like a 
Turkish rug on a carpet, was a pretty flower-garden. Like those flowers 
on the lawn were beauties sauntering up and down in exquisite morning 
toilets, coquetting with their bright-colored parasols, and now and then 
glancing up at the grim old mountains with that air of elegant disdain 
which is so redoubtable a weapon — even in the mountains. Little chil- 
dren fluttered about the grass like beautiful butterflies, and as unmindful 
of the terrors that hovered over them so threateningly. Nurses in their 
stiff grenadier caps and white aprons, lackeys in livery, cadets in uni- 
form, elegant equipages, blooded horses, dainty shapes on horseback, 
cavaliers, and last, but not least, the resolute pedestrian, or the gentle- 
men strollers up and down the shaded avenues, made up a scene as 
animated as attractive. There is tonic in the air: there is healing in 
the balm of these groves. Even the horses step out more briskly. 
Peals of laughter startle the solemn old woods. You hear them high 
up the mountain side. There go a pair of lovers, the gentleman with 
his book, whose most telling passages he has carefully conned, the lady 
with her embroidcrv, over which she bends lower as he reads on. Ah, 



2SS 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



happy days I What is this youth, which, ha\ing it, we are so eager to 
escape, and, when it is gone, we look back upon with such longing ? 



\m 




EAGLE CLIFF AND THE ECHO HOLSE. 



The lofty crag opposite the hotel is Eagle Cliff, a name at once 
legitimate and satisfying, although it is now untenanted by the eagles 
which formerly made their home in the security of its precipitous rocks. 
The cliff is also seen to great advantage from Echo Lake, half a mile 



THE KING OF FRANCONIA. 239 

farther on, of which it constitutes a striking feature. In simple parlance 
it is an advanced spur of Mount Lafayette. The high and curving wall 
of this cliff encloses on one side the Profile Glen, while Mount Cannon 
forms the other. The precipices tower so far abo\-e the glen that large 
trees look like shrubs. Behind Eagle Cliff, almost isolating it from the 
mountain, of which it is the barbacan, a hideous ravine yawns upon the 
pass. Here and there, among the thick-set evergreen trees, beech and 
birch and maple, spread masses of rich green, and mottle it with soft- 
ness. The purple rock bulges daringly out, forming a parapet of ada- 
mant. 

The turf underneath the cliff was most beautifully and profusely 
spangled with the delicate pink anemone, the JJcnr dcs fics, that pale 
darling of our New England woods, to which the arbutus resigns the 
sceptre of spring. It is a moving sight to see these little drooping flow- 
ers, so shy and modest, yet so meek and trustful, growing at the foot of 
a bare and sterile rock. The face hardened looking up; grew soft look- 
ing down. " Don't tread on us !" " May not a flower look up at a moun- 
tain T they seem to plead. Lightly fall the dews upon your upturned 
faces, dear little flowers ! Soft be the sunshine and gentle the winds 
that kiss those sky-tinted cheeks ! In thy sweet purity and innocence 
I see faces that are beneath the sod, flowers that have blossomed in 
Paradise. 

We see also, from the hotel, the singular rock that occasioned the 
change of name from Profile to Cannon Mountain. It nearly resembles 
a piece of heavy ordnance protruding, threateningh', from the parapet of 
a fortress. 

Taking one of the well-worn paths conducting to the water- side, 
a few minutes' walk brings us to the shore of Echo Lake, with Eagle 
Cliff now rising grandly on our right. Nowhere among the White Hills 
is there a fuller realization of a mountain lake than this. Light flaws 
frost it with silver. Sharp keels cut it as diamonds cut glass. The 
water is so transparent that you see fishes swimming or floating indo- 
lently about. 

Echo Lake is somewhat larger than Profile Lake, and is only a 
step from the road. Its sources are in the hundred streams that de- 
scend the surrounding mountains, and its waters are discharged by the 
valley, lying between us and the heights of Bethlehem, into the .\m- 
monoosuc. Therefore, in comino- from one lake to the other we have 



240 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 




ECHO LAKE. 



crossed the summit of the pass. On one side the waters flow to the 
Merrimac, on the other to the Connecticut. An idle fancy tempted me 
to bring a cup of water from Profile and cast it into Echo Lake, for- 
getting that, although divided in their lives, the twin lakes had yet a 
common destiny in the abyss of the ocean. I found the outlook from 
the boat-house on the whole the most satisfying, because one looks back 
directly through the deep chasm of the Notch. 

In this beautiful little mountain -tarn the true artist finds his ideal. 
The snowy peak of Lafavette looked down into it with a freezing stare. 
Cannon Mountain now showed his retreating wall on the right. The 
huge, castellated rampart of Eagle Cliff lifted on its borders precipices 
dripping with moisture, and glistening in the sun like casements. Ex- 
cept for the lake, the whole aspect would be irredeemably savage and 
forbidding — a blind landscape ; but when the sun sinks behind the long 
ridge of Mount Cannon, purpling all these grisly crags, and the cloaked 
shadows, groping their wav foot by foot up the ravines, seem spectres 
risen from the depths of the lake, you see, underneath the cliffs, long 
and slender spears of golden light thrust deep into its black and glossy 



THE KING OF FRANC ONI A. 24 1 

tide, crimsoning it as with its own life-blood. Then, too, is the proper 
moment for surprising these vain old mountains viewing themselves in 
their mountain mirror, in which the bald, the wrinkled, and the decrepit 
appear young, vigorous, and gloriously fair; to see them gloating over 
their swarthy features like the bandit in " Fra Diavolo." Their ragged 
mantles are changed to gaudy cashmeres, picturesquely twisted about 
their brawny shoulders, their snows to laces. Oh the pomp, the majesty • 
of these sunsets, which so glorify the upturned faces of the haggard cliffs ; 
which transmute, as in the miracle, water into wine; which instantly 
transform these rugged mountain walls into gates of jasper, and ruby, 
and onyx — glowing, effulgent, enrapturing! And then, after the sun 
drops wearily down the west, that gauze-like vapor, spun from the breath 
of evening, rising like incense from the surface of the lake, which the 
mountains put on for the masque of night; and, finally, the inquisitive 
stars piercing the lake with ice-cold gleams, or the full -moon breaking 
in one great burst of splendor on its level surface ! 

The echo adds its feats of ventriloquism. The marvel of the pho- 
nograph is but a mimicry of Nature, the universal teacher. Now the 
man blows a strong, clear blast upon a long Alpine horn, and, like a 
bugle-call flying from camp to camp, the martial signal is repeated, not 
once, but again and again, in waves of bewitching sweetness and with 
the exquisite modulations of the wood -thrush's note. From covert to 
covert, now here, now there, it chants its rapturous melody. Once again 
it glides upon the entranced ear, and still we lean in breathless eager- 
ness to catch the last faint cadence sighing itself away upon the palpi- 
tating air. A cannon was then fired. The report and echo came with 
the flash. In a moment more a deep and hollow rumbling sound, as if 
the mountains were splitting their huge sides with suppressed laughter, 
startled us. 

The ascent of Mount Lafayette fittingly crowns the series of excur- 
sions through which we have passed since leaving Plymouth. This 
mountain dominates the valleys north and south with undisputed sway. 
It is the King of Franconia. 

At seven in the morning I crossed the little clearing, and, turning 
into the path leading to the summit, found myself at the beginning of a 
steep ascent. It was one of the last and fairest days of that bright 
season which made the poet exclaim, 

•■.And what is so fair as a day in June?" 

33 



242 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



The thunder-storm of tlie pie\i- 
ous afternoon, which continued 
its furious cannonade at inter- 
vals throughout the niglit, had 
purified the air and given prom- 
ise of a day favorable for the as- 




MOf.NT CAN 



NON, TRiiM HIE PKlniJ-.-PATH, LAFAYET 



ccnsion. No clouds were 
upon the mountains. Ev- 
ei\thmg betokened a pa- 
cific disposition. 



THE KING OF FRANC ONI A. 243 

The path at once attacks the south side of Eagle Cliff. A short 
way up, openings afford fine views of Mount Cannon and its weird 
profile, of the valley below, and of the glen we have just left. The stu- 
pendous mass of Eagle Cliff, suspended a thousand feet over your head, 
accelerates the pace. 

After an hour of steady, but not rapid, climbing, the path turned 
abruptly under the shattered, but still formidable, precipices of the cliff, 
which rose some distance higher, skirted it awhile, and then began to 
zigzag among huge rocks along the narrow ridge uniting the cliff 
with the mass of the mountain. Two deep ravines fall away on either 
side. For two or three hundred yards, from the time the shoulder of 
the cliff is turned until the mountain itself is reached, the walk is as ro- 
mantic an episode of mountain climbing as any I can recall, except the 
narrow gully of Chocorua. But this passage presents no such difficul- 
ties as must be overcome there. Although heaped with rocks, the way 
is easy, and is quite level. In one place, where it glides between two 
prodigious masses of rock dislodged from the cliff, it is so narrow as to 
admit only a single person at a time. When I turned to looked back 
down the black ravine, cutting into the south side of the mountain, my 
eye met nothing but immense rocks stopped in their descent on tlie 
very edge of the gulf. It is among these that a way has been found for 
the path, which was to me a reminiscence of the high defiles of the 
Isthmus of Darien ; to complete tJie illusion, nothing was now wanting 
except the tinkling bells of the mules and the song of the muleteer. I 
climbed upon one of the high rocks, and gazed to my full content upon 
the granite parapet of Mount Cannon. 

In a few rods more the path encountered the great ravine opening 
into the valley of Gale River. Through its wide trough brilliant strips 
of this valley gleamed out far below. The village of Franconia and the 
heights of Lisbon and Bethlehem now appeared on this side. 

I think that the perception of a distance climbed is greater to one 
who is looking down from a great height than to one looking up. Doubt- 
less the imagination, which associates the plunging lines of a deep gorge 
with the horror of a fall, has much to do with this impression. Upon 
crossing a bridge of logs, the peak of Lafayette leaped up ; yet so distant 
as to promise no easy conquest. Somewhere down the gorge I heard 
the roar of a brook; then the report of the cannon at Echo Lake; but 
up here there was no echo. 



244 ^^-^ HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

The usual indications now assured me that I was nearing the top. 
In three-quarters of an hour from the time of leaving the natural bridge, 
joining Eagle Cliff with the mountain, I stood upon the first of the great 
billows which, rolling in to a common centre, appear to have forced the 
true summit a thousand feet higher. 

The first, perhaps the most curious, thing that I noticed^ for one 
hardly suspects the existence of considerable bodies of water in these 
high regions, and, therefore, never comes upon them except unawares 
— was two little lakelets, nestling in the hollow between me and the 
main peak. Reposing amid the sterility of the high peaks, these lakes 
surround themselves with such plants as have survived the ascent from 
below, or, nourished by the snows of the summit, those that never do de- 
scend into temperate climates. Thus an appearance of fertility — one of 
those deceptions that we welcome, knowing it to be such — greets us un- 
expectedly. But its appearance is weird and forbidding. Here the ex- 
tremes of arctic and temperate vegetation meet and embrace ; here the 
flowers of the valley annually visit their pale sisters, banished by Nature 
to these Siberian solitudes ; and here the rough, strong Alpine grass, 
striking its roots deep among the atoms of sand, granite, or flint, lives 
almost in defiance of Nature herself ; and when the snows come and 
the freezing north winds blow, and it can no longer stand erect, throws 
itself upon the tender plants, like a brave soldier expiring on the body 
of his helpless comrade, saved by his own devotion. 

But these Alpine lakes always provoke a smile. When some dis- 
tance beyond the Eagle Lakes, as they are called, and higher, I caught, 
underneath a wooded ridge of Cannon, the sparkle of one hidden among 
the summits on the opposite side of the Notch. The immense, solitary 
Kinsman Mountain overtops Cannon as easily as Cannon does Eagle 
Cliff. In its dark setting of the thickest and blackest forests this lake 
blazed like one of the enormous diamonds which our forefathers so 
firmly believed existed among these mountains. They call this water — 
only to be discovered by getting above it — Lonesome Lake, and in sum- 
mer it is the chosen retreat of one well known to American literature, 
whom the mountains know, and who knows them. 

I descended the slbpe to the plateau on which the lakes lie, soon 
gaining the rush -grown shore of the nearest. Its water was hardly 
drinkable, but your thirsty climber is not apt to be too fastidious. 
These lakes are prettier from a distance ; the spongy and yielding moss, 



THE KING OF FRANC ONI A. 



245 




/^,:_i-^ 




the sickly yellow sedge surrounding them, and the rusty brown 
of the brackish water, do not invite us to tarry long. 

The ascent of the pinnacle now began. It is too much a repetition, 



246 THE HEART OE THE WHITE M O UNTAINS. 

though by no means as toilsome, of tlie Mount Washington cHmb to 
merit particular description. This j^eak, too, seems disinherited by Nat- 
ure. The last trees encountered are the stunted firs with distorted little 
trunks, which it may have required half a century to grow as thick as 
the wrist. I left the region of Alpine trees to enter that of gray rocks, 
constantly increasing in size toward the summit, where they were con- 
fusedly piled in ragged ridges, one upon another, looming large and 
threateningly in the distance. But as often as I stopped to breathe I 
scanned "the landscape o'er" with all the delight of a wholly new ex- 
perience. The fascination of being on a mountain -top has yet to be 
explained. Perhaps, after all, it is not susceptible of analysis. 

After gaining the highest visible point, to find the real summit still 
beyond, I stopped to drink at a delicious spring trickling from under- 
neath a large rock, around which the track wound. I was now among 
the ruin and demolition of the summit, standing in the midst of a vast 
atmospheric ocean. 

Had I staked all my hopes upon the distant view, no choice but 
disappointment was mine to accept. .Steeped in the softest, dreamiest 
azure that ever dull earth borrowed from bright heaven, a hundred 
peaks lifted their airy turrets on high. These castles of the air — for I 
will maintain that they were nothing else — loomed with enchanting 
grace, the nearest like battlements of turquoise and amethyst, or, reced- 
ing through infinite gradations to the merest shadows, seemed but the 
dusky reflection of those less remote. The air was full of illusions. 
There was bright sunshine, yet only a deluge of semi -opaque golden 
vapor. There were forms without substance. See those iron -ribbed, 
deep-chested mountains ! I declare it seemed as if a swallow might fly 
through them with ease ! Over the great Twin chain were traced, ap- 
parently on the air itself, some humid outlines of surpassing grace which 
I recognized for the great White Mountains. It was a dream of the 
great poetic past: of the golden age of Milton and of Dante. The 
mountains seemed dissolving and floating away before my eyes. 

Stretched beneath the huge land-billows, the vaHeys — north, south, 
or west — reflected the fervid sunshine with softened brilliance, and all 
those white farms and hamlets spotting them looked like flakes of foam 
in the hollows of an immense ocean. 

Heaven forbid that I should profane such a scene with the dry 
recital of this view or that ! I did not even think of it. A study of 



THE KING OF FRANC ONIA. 247 

one of Nature's most capricious moods interested me far more than a 
study of topograpliy. How should I know that what I saw were moun- 
tains, when the earth itself was not clearly distinguishable ? Alone, sur- 
rounded by all these delusions, I had, indeed, a support for my feet, but 
none whatever for the bewildered senses. 

I found the mountain -top untenanted except by horse-flies, black 
gnats, and active little black spiders. These swarmed upon the rocks. 
I also found buttercups, the mountain-cranberry, and a heath, bearing a 
little white flower, blossoming near the summit. There were the four 
walls of a ruined building, a cairn, and a signal-staff to show that some 
one had been before me. This staff is 5259 feet above the ocean, or 
3245 feet above the summit of the Franconia Pass. 

The ascent required about three, and the descent about two hours. 
The distance is not much less than four miles ; but, these miles beijig a 
nearly uninterrupted climb from the base to the summit of the moun- 
tain, haste is out of the question, if going up, and imprudent, if coming 
down. There are no breakneck or dangerous places on the route ; nor 
any where the traveller is liable to lose his way, even in a fog, except on 
the first summit, where the new and old paths meet, and where a guide- 
board should be erected. 



248 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



IV. 



FRANCONIA, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD. 

Believe if thou wilt that mountains change their places, but believe not that men change 
their dispositions. — Oriental Prmh'rh. 

ALTHOUGH one may make the journey from the Profile House 
to Bethlehem with greater ease and rapidity by the railway re- 
cently constructed along the side of the Franconia range, preference will 
unquestionably be given to the old way by all who would not lose some 
of the most strikintr views the neis^hborhood affords. Beginnina: near 
the hotel, the railway skirts the shore of Echo Lake, and then plunges 
into a forest it was the first to invade. By a descent of one hundred 
feet to the mile, for nine and a half miles, it reaches the Ammonoosuc 
at Bethlehem station. I have nothing to say against the locomotive, but 
then I should not like to go through the gallery of the Louvre behind 
one. 





i ~- :^&.J"S^ 



From Echo Lake the high-road to Franconia, Littleton, and Bethle- 
hem winds down the steep mountain side into the valley of Gale River. 



FRANC ONI A, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD. 249 

To the left, in the middle distance, appear the little church-tower and 
white buildings constituting the village of Franconia Iron Works. This 
village is charmingly placed for effectively commanding a survey of the 
amphitheatre of mountains which isolates it from the neighboring towns 
and settlements. 

As we come down the three-mile descent, from the summit of the 
pass to the level of the deep valley, and to the northern base of the 
notch-mountains, an eminence rises to the left. Half-way up, occupying 
a well-chosen site, there is a hotel, and on the high ridge another com- 
mands not only this valley, but also those lying to the west of it. On 
the opposite side to us rise the green heights of Bethlehem, Mount 
Agassiz being conspicuous by the observatory on its summit. Those 
farm-houses dotting the hill-side show how the road crooks and turns to 
get to the top. Following these heights westward, a deep rift indicates 
the course of the stream dividing the valley, and of the highway to 
Littleton. Between these walls the long ellipse of fertile land beckons 
us to descend. 

I am always most partial to those grassy lanes and by-ways going 
no one knows where, especially if they have well-sweeps and elm-trees 
in them; but here also is the old red farm-house, with its antiquated 
sweep, its colony of arching elms, its wild- rose clustering above the 
porch, its embodiment of those magical words, " Home, sweet home." It 
fits the rugged landscape as no other habitation can. It fits it to a T, 
as we say in New England. More than this, it unites us with another 
and different generation. What a story of toil, privation, endurance 
these old walls could tell ! How genuine the surprise with which they 
look down upon the more modern houses of the village ! Here, too, is 
the Virginia fence, on which the king of the barn-yard defiantly perches. 
There is the field behind it, and the men scattering seed in the fallow 
earth. Yonder, in the mowing-ground, a laborer is sharpening his scythe, 
the steel ringing musically under the c[uick strokes of his " rifle." 

Over there, to the left, is the rustic bridge, and hard by a clump of 
peeled birches throw their grateful shade over the hot road. Many stop 
here, for the white-columned trunks are carved with initials, some freshly 
cut, some mere scars. But why mutilate the tree t What signify those 
letters, that every idler should gratify his little vanity by giving it a 
stab ? Do you know that the birch does not renew its bark, and that 
the tree thus stripped of its natural protection is doomed 1 Cease, then, 

34 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



I prav you, this senseless mutilation ; nor call down the just malediction 
of the future traveller for destroying his shade. Unable to escape its 
fate, the poor tree, like a victim at the stake, stoically receives your bar- 
barous strokes and gashes. Refrain, then, traveller, for pity's sake ! 
Have a little mercy ! Know that the ancients believed the tree pos- 
sessed of a soul. Remember the touching story of Adonis, barbarously 
wounded, surviving in a pine, where he weeps eternally. Consider how 
often is the figure of "The Tree" used in the Scriptures as emblematic 
of the life eternal ! Who would wish to inhabit a treeless heaven .f" 

The stream — which does not allow us to forget that it is here — is a 
vociferous mountain brook. Hardly less forward is the roadside foun- 
tain gushing into a water- 
trough its refreshing abun- 
dance for the tired and 
dusty wayfarer. It makes 
no difference in the world 
whether he goes on two 
legs or on four. " Drink 
and be filled" is the invita- 
tion thus generously held 
out to all alike. With what 
a sigh of pleasure your 
steaming beast lifts his re- 
luctant and dripping muz- 
zle from the cool wave, and 
after satisfying again and 
again his thirst, luxuriously 
immersing his nose for the 
third and fourth time, still 
pretends to drink ! How deliciously light and limpid and sparkling is 
the water, and how sweet ! How it cools the hot blood ! You quaff 
nectar. You sip it as you would champagne. It tastes far better, you 
think, pouring from this half -decayed, moss -crusted spout than from 
iron, or bronze, or marble. Come, fellow-traveller, a bumper! Fill 
high ! God bless the man who first invented the roadside fountain ! 
He was a true benefactor of his fellow-man. 

Turn once more to the house. A little girl tosses corn, kernel by 
kernel, to her pet chickens. There go a flight of pigeons : they curvet 




THE ROAIJSIUE SI'KINC 



FRANCONIA, AND THE N E I G H B O R J/ O O D . 251 

and wheel, and settle on the ridge-pole, where they begin to flirt, and 
strut, and coo. The men in the field look up at the top of the moun- 
tain, to see if it is not yet noon. And now a woman, with plump bare 
arms, coming briskly to the open door, puts the dinner-horn to her lips 
with one hand while placing the other lightly upon her hip. She docs 
not know that act and attitude are alike inviting. How should she t 

Let us follow the pretty stream that is our guide. Franconia has 
the reputation of being the hottest in summer and in winter the coldest 
of the mountain villages. It is hot. The houses are strung along the 
road for a mile. People may or may not live in them : you .see nobody. 
One modest church-tower catches the e\'e for a moment, and then, as we 
enter the heart of the village, a square barrack of a building, just across 
the stream, is pointed out as the old furnace, which in times past gave 
importance to this out-of-the-way corner. But the old furnace is now 
deserted except by cows from the neighboring pastures, who come and 
go through its open doors in search of shade. At present the river, 
which brings its music and its freshness to the very doors of the vil- 
lagers, is the only busy thing in the place. 

During the Rebellion the furnace was kept busy night and day, turn- 
ing out iron to be cast into cannon. The very hills were melted down 
for the defence of the imperilled Union. In the adjoining town of Lis- 
bon the discovery of gold-bearing quartz turned the heads of the usu- 
ally steady-going population. The precious deposits were first found on 
the Bailey farm, in 1865, and similar specimens were soon detected on 
the farms adjoining. It is said the old people could scarcely be made 
to credit these reports until they had seen and handled the precious 
metal ; for the country had been settled nearly a century, and the pres- 
ence of any but the baser ores was wholly unsuspected and disbelieved. 

There is one peculiarity, common to all these mountain villages, to 
which I must allude. A stranger is not known by any personal peculi- 
arity, but by his horse. If you ask for such or such a person, the 
chances are ten to one you will immediately be asked in return if he 
drove a bay horse, or a black colt, or a brown mare with one white ear; 
so quick are these lazy-looking men, that loll on the door-steps or spread 
themselves out over the shop -counters, to observe what interests them 
most. The girls here know the points of a horse better than most men, 
and are far more reckless drivers than men. To a man \\\\o, like my- 
self, has lived in a horse-stealing country, it docs look queerly to see the 



252 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

barn-doors standing open at night. But then every country has its own 
customs. 

One seeks in vain for any scraps of history or tradition that might 
shed even a momentary lustre upon this village out of the past. Yet 
its situation invites the belief that it is full of both. Disappointed in 
this, we at least have an inexhaustible theme in the dark and tranquil 
mountains bending over us. 

Mount Lafayette presents toward Franconia two enormous green 
billows, rolled apart, the deep hollow between being the great ravine 
dividing the mountain from base to summit. Over this deep incision, 
which, from the irregularity of one of its ridges, looks widest at the top, 
presides, with matchless dignity, the bared and craggy peak whose dusky 
brown gradually mingles with the scant verdure checked hundreds of 
feet down. With what hauteur it seems to regard this effort of Nature 
to place a garland on its bronzed and knotted forehead! One can never 
get over his admiration for the savage grace with which the mountain, 
which at first sight seems literally thrown together, develops a beauty, 
a harmony, and an intelligence giving such absolute superiority to works 
of Nature over those of man. 

The side of Mount Cannon turned toward the village now elevates 
two almost regular triangular masses, one rising behind the other, and 
both surmounted by the rounded summit, which, except in its mass, has 
little resemblance to a mountain. It is seen that on two-thirds of these 
elevations a new forest has replaced the original growth. Twenty -five 
years ago a destructive fire raged on this mountain, destroying all the 
vegetation, as well as the thin soil down to the hard rock. Even that 
was cracked and peeled like old parchment. This burning mountain 
was a scene of startling magnificence during several nights, when the vil- 
lage was as light as day, the sky overspread an angry glow, and the river 
ran blood-red. The hump-backed ridges, connecting Cannon with Kins- 
man, present nearly the same appearance from this as from the other 
side of the Notch — or as remarked when approaching from Campton. 

The superb picture seen from the upper end of the \-alley, combin- 
ing, as it does, the two great chains in a single glance of the eye, is ex- 
tended and improved by going a mile out of the village to the school- 
house on the Sugar Hill road. It is a peerless landscape. I have gazed 
at it for hours with that ineffable delight which baffles all power of ex- 
pression. It will have no partakers. One must go there alone and see 



FRANC ONI A, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD. 253 

the setting sun paint those vast shapes with colors tlie heavens alone 
are capable of producing. 

Distinguished by the beautiful groves of maple that adorn its crest, 
Sugar Hill is destined to grow more and more in the popular esteem. 
No" traveller should pass it by. It is so admirably placed as to com- 
mand in one magnificent sweep of the eye all the highest mountains; it 
is also lifted into sun and air by an elevation sufificiently high to reach 
the cooler upper currents. The days are not so breathless or so stifling 
as thev are down in the valley. You look deep into the Franconia 
Notch.' and watch the evening shadows creep up the great east wall. 
Extending beyond these nearer mountains, the scarcely inferior Twin 
summits pose themselves like gigantic athletes. Passing to the other 
side of the vallev, we see as far as the pale peaks of Vermont, and 
those rising above the valley of Israel's River. But better than all, 
crrander than all, is that kingly coronet of great mountains set on the 
fustrous green cushion of the valley. Nowhere, I venture to afifirm, will 
the felicity of the title, " Crown of New England,"^ receive more unani- 
mous acceptance than from this favored spot. Especially when a 
canopy of clouds overspreading permits the pointed peaks to reflect 
the illuminated fires of sunset does the crown seem blazing with jewels 
and precious stones. All the great summits are visible here, and all the 
ravines, except those in Madison, are as clearly distinguished as if not 
more than ten instead of twenty miles separated us. 

The high crest of Sugar Hill unfolds an unrivalled panorama. This 
is but faint praise. Yet^I find myself instinctively preferring the land- 
scape from Goodenow's ; for those great horizons, uncovered all at once, 
like a magnificent banquet, are too much for one pair of eyes, however 
good, or however unwearied with continued sight -seeing. As we can- 
not look at all the pictures of a gallery at once, we naturally single out 
the masterpieces. The effort to digest too much natural scenery is a 
species of intellectual gluttony the overtaxed brain will be quick to re- 
venge, by an attack of indigestion or a loss of appetite. 

\ was very fond of walking, in the cool of the evening, either in this 
direction or to the upper end of the village, on the Bethlehem road. 



> This name was given to his picture of the great range, in possession of the Prince of 
Wales, by Mr. George L. Brown, the eminent landscape-painter. The canvas represents the 
summits in the sumptuous garb of autumn. 



254 ^'^^ HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

There is one point on this road, before it begins in earnest its ascent 
of the heights, that became a favorite haunt of mine. Emerging from 
the conceahnent of thick woods upon a sandy plain, covered here with 
a thick carpet of verdure, and skirted by a regiment of pines seemingly 
awaiting only the word of command to advance into the \alley, a land- 
scape second to none that I have seen is before you. At the same time 
he would be an audacious mortal who attempted to transfer it to page 
or canvas. Nothing disturbs the exquisite harmony of the scene. To 
the left of you are all the White Mountains, from Adams to Pleasant ; 
in front, the Franconia range, from Kinsman to the Great Haystack. 
Here is the deep rent of the Notch from which we have but lately de- 
scended. Here, too, overtopped and subjugated by the superb spire of 
Lafayette, the long and curiously-distorted outline of Eagle Cliff pitches 
headlong down into the half -open aperture of the pass. Nothing but 
an earthquake could have made such a breach. How that tremendous, 
earth -swooping ridge seems battered down by the blows of a huge 
mace! Unspeakably wild and stern, the fractured mountains are to 
the valley what a raging tempest is to the serenest of skies : one part 
of the heavens convulsed by the storm, another all peace and calm. 
Thus from behind his impregnable outworks Lafayette, stern and de- 
fiant, keeps eternal watch and ward over the valley cowering at his feet. 

From this spot, too, sacred as yet from all intrusion, the profound 
ravine, descending nearly from the summit of Lafayette, is fully exposed. 
It is a thing of cracks, crevices, and rents ; of upward curves in brilliant 
light ; of black, mysterious hollows, which the eye investigates inch by 
inch, to where the gorge is swallowed up by the thick forests under- 
neath. The whole side of the principal peak seems torn awa)-. Up 
there, among the snows, is the source of a flashing stream which comes 
roaring down through the gorge. Storms swell it into an ungovernable 
and raging torrent. Thus under the folds of his mantle the lordly peak 
carries peace or war for the vale. 

After the half -stifled feeling experienced among the great moun- 
tains, it is indeed a rare pleasure to once more come forth into full 
breathing-space, and to inspect at leisure from some friendly shade the 
grandeur magnified by distance, yet divested of excitements that set 
the brain whirling by the rapidity of their succession. If the wayfarer 
chances to see, as I did, the whole noble array of high summits pre- 
sentins: a long, snowv line of unsullied brilliance against a background 



FRANCONl A. AND THE A' K J G 1 1 B U R II O O D . 255 

of pale azure, he will account it one of the crowning enjoynicnts of his 
journey. 

The Bridal Veil Falls, lying on the northern slope of Mount Kins- 
man, will, when a good path shall enable tourists to visit them, prove 
one of the most attractive features of Franconia. Truth compels me 
to say that I did not once hear them spoken of during the fortnight 
passed in the village, although fishermen were continually bringing in 
trout from the Copper- mine Brook, on which these falls are situated. 
The height of the fall is given at seventy-six feet, and its surroundings 
are said to be of the most romantic and picturesque character. Its 
marvellous transparency, which permits the ledges to be seen through 
the gauze-like sheet falling over them, has given to it its name. 

From Franconia I took the daily stage to Littleton, which lies on 
both banks of the Ammonoosuc, and, turning my back upon the high 
mountains, ran down the rail to Wells River, having the intention of 
cultivating a more intimate acquaintance with that most noble and in- 
teresting entrance formed by the meeting of the Ammonoosuc with the 
Connecticut. 



256 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



V, 

THE CONNECTICUT OX- BOW. 

Say, have the sohd rocks 
Into streams of silver been melted. 
Flowing over the plains, 
Spreading to lakes in the fields? 

Longfellow. 

THE Connecticut is justly named "the beautiful river," and its valley 
" the garden of New England." Issuing from the heart of the 
northern \vilderne.ss, it spreads boundless fertility throughout its stately 
march to the sea. It is not a rapid river, but flows with an even and 
majestic tide through its long avenue of mountains. Radiant envoy of 
the skies, its mission is peace on earth and good-will toward men. As 
it advances the confluent -streams flock to it from their mountain homes. 
On one side the Green Mountains of Vermont send their hundred tribu- 
taries to swell its flood ; on the other side the White Hills of New 
Hampshire pour their impetuous torrents into its broad and placid 
bosom. Two States thus vie with each other in contributing the wealth 
it lavishes with absolutely impartial hand along the shores of each. 

Unlike the storied Rhine, no crumbling ruins crown the lofty heights 
of this beautiful river. Its verdant hill-sides everywhere display the evi- 
dences of thrift and happiness ; its only fortresses are the watchful and 
everlasting peaks that catch the earliest beams of the New England sun 
and flash the welcome signal from tower to tower. From time to time 
the mountains, which seem crowding its banks to see it pass, draw back, 
as if to give the noble river room. It rewards this benevolence with a 
garden -spot. Sometimes the mountains press too closely upon it, and 
the offended stream repays this temerity with a barrenness equal to the 
beneficence it has just bestowed. Where it is permitted to expand the 
amphitheatres thus created are the highest types of decorative nature. 
Graciously touching first one shore and then the other, making the love- 
liest windings imaginable, the river actually seems on the point of re- 



THE CONNECTICUT OX- BOW. 257 

tracing its steps ; but, yielding to destiny, it again resumes its slow 
march, loitering meanwhile in the cool shadows of the mountains, or 
indolently stretching itself at full length upon the green carpet of the 
level meadows. Every tra\'eller who has passed here has seen the 
Happy Valley of Rasselas.' 

Such is the renowned Ox- Bow of Lower Coiis. Tell me, you who 
have seen it, if the sight has not caused a ripple of pleasurable excite- 
ment ? 

Here the Connecticut receives the waters of the Ammonoosuc, flow- 
ing from the very summit of the White Hills, and, in its turn, made to 
guide the railway to its own birthplace among the snows of Mount 
Washington. Here the valley, graven in long lines by the ploughshare, 
heaped with fruitful orchards and groves, extends for many miles up and 
down its checkered and variegated floor. But it is most beautiful be- 
tween the villages of Newbury and Haverhill, or at the Great and Little 
Ox-Bow, where the fat and fecund meadows, extending for two miles 
from side to side of the valley, resemble an Eden upon earth, and the 
villages, prettily arranged on terraces above them, half- hid in a thick 
fringe of foliage, the mantel-ornaments of their own best rooms. Only 
moderate elevations rise on the Vermont side ; but the New Hampshire 
shore is upheaved into the finely accentuated Benton peaks, behind 
which, like a citadel within its outworks, is uplifted the gigantic bulk of 
Moosehillock — the greatest mountain of all this valley, and its natural 
landmark — keeping strict watch over it as far as the Canadian frontiers. 

The traveller approaching by the Connecticut Valley holds this ex- 
quisite landscape in view from the Vermont side of the river. The 
tourist who approaches by the valley of the Merrimac enjoys it from the 
New Hampshire shore. 

The large village of Newbury, usually known as the " Street," is built 
along a plateau, rising well above the intervale, and joined to the foot- 
hills of the Green Mountains. The Passumpsic Railway coasts the in- 
tervale, just touching the northern skirt of the village. The village of 
Haverhill is similarly situated with respect to the skirt of the White 
Mountains ; but its surface is much more uneven, and it is elevated 



' The true source of the Connecticut remained so long in doubt that it passed into a by- 
word. Cotton Mather, speaking of an ecclesiastical quarrel in Hartford, says that it was al- 
most as obscure as the rise of the Connecticut River. 

35 



25S THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

hio-her above the valley than its opposite neighbor. The Boston, Con- 
cord, and Montreal Railway, having crossed the divide between the wa- 
ters of the Merrimac and the Connecticut, now follows the high level, 
after a swift descent from Warren Summit. These plateaus, or ter- 
races, forming broken shelves, first upon one side of the valley, then 
upon the other, strongly resemble the remains of the ancient bed of a 
river of tenfold the magnitude of the stream as we see it to-day. They 
o-ive rise at once to all those interesting conjectures, or theories, which are 
considered the special field of the geologist, but are also equally attrac- 
tive to evers- intelligent observer of Nature and her wondrous works. 

Of these two villages, which ai-e really subdivided into half a dozen, 
and which so beautifully decorate the mountain walls of this valley, it is 
no. treason to the Granite State to say that Newbury enjoys a preference 
few will be found to dispute. It has the grandest mountain landscape. 
Moosehillock is lifted high above the Benton range, which occupies the 
foreground. The whole background is filled with high summits — Lafay- 
ette feeling his way up among the clouds, Moosehillock roughly pushing 
his out of the throng. Meadows of emerald, river of burnished steel, 
hill -sides in green and buff, and etched with glittering hamlets, gray 
mountains, bending darkly over, cloud-detaining peaks, vanishing in the 
far east — surely fairer landscape never brought a glow of pleasure to 
the cheek, or kindled the eye of a traveller, already sated with a pano- 
rama reaching from these mountains to the Sound. 

We are now, I imagine, sufficiently instructed in the general char- 
acteristics of the famed Ox-Bow to pass from its picturesque and topo- 
graphical features into the domain of historv, and to summon from the 
past the details of a tragedy in war, which, had it -occurred in the 
days of Homer, would have been embalmed in an epic. Our history 
begins at a period before any white settlement existed in the region 
immediately about us. No wonder the red man relinquished it only at 
the point of the bayonet. It was a country worth fighting for to the 
bitter end. 



THE SACK UF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. 259 



I 



VI. 

THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. 
"L'histoire :i sa verile ; la legende a la sienne." 

N the month of September, 1759, the army of Sir Jeffrey Amherst 
_ was in cantonments at Crown Point. A picked corps of American 
rangers, commanded by Robert Rogers, was attached to this army. One 
day an aide-de-camp brought Rogers an order to repair forthwith to 
head-quarters, and in a few moments the ranger entered the general's 

marquee. 

" At your orders, general," said the ranger, making his salute. 

" About that accursed hornet's-nest of St. Francis .?" said the general, 

frowning. 

"When I was a lad, your excellency, we used to burn a hornet's-nest, 
if it became troublesome," observed Rogers, significantly. 

"And how many do you imagine, major, this one has stung to death 
in the last six years.'" inquired General Amherst, fumbling among his 
papers. 

'• I don't know ; a great many, your excellency." 

" Six hundred men, women, and children." 

The two men looked at each other a moment without speaking. 

" At this rate," continued the general, " his Majesty's New England 
provinces will soon be depopulated." 

" For God's sake, general, put a stop to this butchery !" ejaculated 
the exasperated ranger. 

" That's exactly what I have sent for you to do. Here are your 
orders. You are commanded, and I expect you to destroy that nest of 
vipers, root and branch. Remember the atrocities committed by these 
Indian scoundrels, and take your revenge ; but remember, also, that I 
forbid the killing of women and children. Exterminate the fighting- 



26o THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 




ROBERT ROGER; 



men, but spare the non-combatants. That is war. Now make an end 
of St. Francis once and for all." 

Nearly a hundred leagues separated the Abenaqui village from the 
English ; and we should add that once there, in the heart of the ene- 
my's country, all idea of help from the army must be abandoned, and 
the rangers, depending wholly upon themselves, be deprived of every 
resource except to cut their way through all obstacles. But this was 
exactly the kind of service for which this distinctive body of American 
soldiers was formed. 



THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. 261 

Sir Jeffrey Amherst had said to Rogers, " Go and wipe out St. 
Francis for me," precisely as he would have said to his orderly, " Go and 
saddle my horse." 

But this illustrates the high degree of confidence which the army 
reposed in the chief of the rangers. The general knew that this expe- 
dition demanded, at every stage, the highest qualities in a leader. Rog- 
ers had already proved himself possessed of these qualities in a hundred 
perilous encounters. 

That night, without noise or display, the two hundred men detailed 
for the expedition left their encampment, which was habitually in the 
van of the army. On the evening of the twenty-second day since leav- 
ing Crown Point a halt was ordered. The rangers were near their 
destination. From the top of a tree the doomed village was discovered 
three miles distant. Not the least sign that the presence of an enemy 
was suspected could be seen or heard. The village wore its ordinary 
aspect of profound security. Rogers therefore commanded his men to 
rest, and prepare themselves for the work in hand. 

At eight in the evening, having first disguised himself, Rogers took 
Lieutenant Turner and Ensign Avery, and with them reconnoitred the 
Indian town. He found it the scene of high festivity, and for an hour 
watched unseen the unsuspecting inhabitants celebrating with dancing 
and barbaric music the nuptials of one of the tribe. All this marvel- 
lously favored his plans. Not dreaming of an enemy, the savages aban- 
doned themselves to unrestrained enjoyment and hilarity. '\\\q fete was 
protracted until a late hour under the very eyes of the spies, who, find- 
ing themselves unnoticed, crept boldly into the village, where they exam- 
ined the ground and concerted the plan of attack. 

At length all was hushed. The last notes of revelry faded on the 
still night air. One by one the drowsy merry-makers retired to their 
lodges, and soon the village was wrapped in profound slumber — the slum- 
ber of death. This was the moment so anxiouslv awaited by Rogers. 
Time was precious. He quickly made his way back to the spot where 
the rangers were lying on their arms. One by one the men were 
aroused and fell into their places. It was two in the morning when 
he left the village. At three the whole body moved stealthily up to 
within five hundred yards of the village, where the men halted, threw 
off their packs, and were formed for the assault in three divisions. 
The village continued silent as the grave. 



262 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOCXTAIXS. 

St. Francis was a village of about forty or fifty wigwams, thrown 
together in a disorderly clump. In the midst was a chapel, to which 
the inhabitants were daily summoned by matin and vesper bell to hear 
the holy father, whose spiritual charge they were, celebrate the mass. 
The place was enriched with the spoil torn from the English and the 
ransom of many miserable captives. We have said that these Indians 
had slain and taken, in six years, six hundred English : that is equiva- 
lent to one hundred every year. 

The knowledge of numberless atrocities nerved the arms and steeled 
the hearts of the avengers. When the sun began to brighten the east 
the three bands of rangers, waiting eagerly for the signal, rushed upon 
the village. 

A deplorable and sickening scene of carnage ensued. The surprise 
was complete. The first and only warning the amazed savages had 
were the volleys that mowed them down by scores and fifties. Eyes 
heavy with the carousal of the previous night opened to encounter an 
appalling carnival of butchery and horror. Two of the stoutest of the 
rangers — Farrington and Bradley — led one of the attacking columns 
to the door where the wedding had taken place. Finding it barred, they 
threw themselves so violently against it that the fastenings gave way, 
precipitating Bradley headlong among the Indians who were asleep on 
their mats. All these were slain before they could make the least re- 
sistance. 

On all sides the axe and the rifle were soon reaping their deadly 
harvest. Those panic-stricken, half-dazed wretches who rushed pell-mell 
into the streets either ran stupidly upon the uplifted weapons of the 
rangers or were shot down by squads advantageously posted to receive 
them. A few who ran this terrible gauntlet plunged into the river 
flowing before the village, and struck boldly out for the opposite shore ; 
but the avengers had closed every avenue of escape, and the fugitives 
were picked off from the banks. The same fate overtook those who 
tumbled into their canoes and pushed out into the stream. The frail 
barks were riddled with shot, leaving their occupants an easy target for 
a score of rifles. The incessant flashes, the explosions of musketry, the 
shouts of the assailants, and the yells of their victims were all mingled 
in one horrible uproar. For two hours this massacre continued. Com- 
bat it cannot be called. Rendered furious by the sight of hundreds of 
scalps waving mournfully in the night -wind in front of the lodges, the 



THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. 263 

pitiless assailants hunted the doomed savages down like blood -hounds. 
Every shot was followed by a death -whoop, every stroke by a howl of 
agony. For two horrible hours the village shook with explosions and 
echoed with frantic outcries. It was then given up to pillage, and then 
to the torch, and all those who from fear had hid themselves perished 
miserably in the flames. At seven o'clock in the morning all was over. 
Silence once more enveloped the hideous scene of conflagration and 
slaughter. The village of St. Francis was the funeral pyre of two hun- 
dred warriors. Rogers had indeed taken the fullest revenge enjoined 
by Sir Jeffrey Amherst's orders. 

From this point our true history passes into the legendary. 

While the sack of St. Francis was going on a number of the Abena- 
quis took refuge in the little chapel. Their retreat was discovered. A 
few of their assailants having collected in the neighborhood precipitated 
themselves toward it, with loud cries. Others ran up. Two or three 
blows with the butt of a musket forced open the door, when the build- 
ing was instantly filled with armed men. 

An unforeseen reception awaited them. Lighted candles burnt on 
the high altar, shedding a mild radiance throughout the interior, and 
casting a dull glow upon the holy vessels of gold and silver upon the 
altar. At the altar's foot, clad in the sacred vestments of his olifice, 
stood the missionary, a middle-aged, vigorous-looking man, his arms 
crossed upon his breast, his face lighted up with the exaltation of a 
mart\r. Face and figure denoted the high resolve to meet fate half-way. 
Behind him crouched the knot of half-crazed savages, who had fled to 
the sanctuary for its protection, and who, on seeing their mortal enemies, 
instinctively took a posture of defence. The priest, at two or three 
paces in advance of them, seemed to offer his body as their rampart. 
The scene was worthy the pencil of a Rembrandt. 

At this sight the intruders halted, the foremost even falling back a 
step, but the vessels of gold and silver inflamed their cupidity to the 
highest pitch ; while the hostile attitude of the warriors was a menace 
men already steeped in bloodshed regarded a moment in still more 
threatening silence, and then by a common impulse recognized by cover- 
ing the forlorn group with their rifles. 

Believing the critical moment come, the priest threw up his hands 
in an attitude of supplication, arresting the fatal volley as much by the 
dignity of the gesture itself, as by the resonant voice which exclaimed, 



264 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

in French, " Madmen, for pity's sake, for the sake of Him on the Cross, 
stay your hands ! This violence ! What is your will ? What seek ye 
in the house of God ?"' 

A gunshot outside, followed b\' a mournful howl, was his sole re- 
sponse. 

The priest shuddered, and his crisped lips murmured an txvc. He 
comprehended that another soul had been sent, unsh riven, to its final 
account. 

" Hear him !" said a ranger, in a mocking undertone ; " his gabble 
minds me of a flock of wild geese." 

A burst of derisive laughter followed this coarse sally. 

In fact, they had not too much respect for the Church of Rome, these 
wild woodsmen, but were filled with ineradicable hatred for its mission- 
aries, domesticated among their enemies, in whom they believed they 
saw the real heads of the tribes, and the legitimate objects, therefore, of 
their vengeance. 

"Yield, Papist! Come, you shall have good quarter; on the word of 
a ranger you shall," cried an authoritative voice, the speaker at the same 
time advancing a step, and dropping his rifle the length of his sinewy 
arms. 

"Never!" answered the ecclesiastic, crossing himself. 

A suppressed voice from behind hurriedly murmured in his ear, 
^' Ecoutcz: raides-voiis, vion plrc : jc voiis en sitpplic T 

^'yatnais ! micux vatit la mort que la misirieorde de brigands ct mciir- 
triers P ejaculated the missionary, rejecting the counsel also, with a ve- 
hement shake of the head. 

''Grand Dien ! tout, done, est Jini" sighed the voice, despairingly. 

The rangers understood the gesture better than the words. An 
ofificer, the same who had just spoken, again impatiently demanded, this 
time in a higher and more threatening key, 

"A last time! Do you yield or no.-" Answer, friar!" 

The priest turned c^uickly, took the consecrated Host from the altar, 
elevated it abo\e his head, and, in a voice that was long remembered by 
those who heard it, exclaimed, 

" To your knees, monsters ! to your knees !" 

What the ranger understood of this pantomime and this command 
was that they conveyed a scornful and a final refusal. Muttering under 
his breath, " Your blood be upon your own head, then," he levelled his 



THE SACK OF ST. FRANCIS DE SALES. 265 

gun and pulled the trigger. A general discharge from both sides shook 
the building, filling it with thick and stifling smoke, and instantly extin- 
guishing the lights. The few dim rays penetrating the windows, and 
which seemed recoiling from the frightful spectacle within, enabled the 
combatants vaguely to distinguish each other in the obscurity. Not a 
cry was heard ; nothing but quick reports or blows signaled the progress 
of this lugubrious combat. 

This butchery continued ten minutes, at the end of which the 
rangers, with the exception of one of their number killed outright, issued 
from the chapel, after having first stripped the altar, despoiled the shrine 
of its silver image of the Virgin, and flung the Host upon the ground. 
While this profanation was enacting a voice rose from the heap of dead 
at the altars foot, which made the boldest heart among the rangers stop 
beating. It said, 

" The Great Spirit of the Abenaquis will scatter darkness in the path 
of the accursed Pale-faces ! Hunger walks before and Death strikes their 
trail ! Their wives weep for the warriors that do not return ! Manitou 
is angry when the dead speak. The dead have spoken !" 

The torch was then applied to the chapel, and, like the rest of the 
village, it was fast being reduced to a heap of cinders. But now some- 
thing singular transpired. As the rangers filed out from the shambles 
the bell of the little chapel began to toll. In wonder and dread they lis- 
tened to its slow and measured strokes until, the flames having mounted 
to the belfry, it fell with a loud clang among the ruins. The rangers 
hastened onward. This unexpected sound already filled them with 
gloomy forebodings. 

After the stern necessities of their situation rendered a separation the 
sole hope of successful retreat, the party which carried along with it the 
silver image was so hard pressed by the Indians, and by a still more re- 
lentless enemy, famine, that it reached the banks of the Connecticut re- 
duced to four half-starved, emaciated men. More than once had they 
been on the point of flinging their burden into some one of the torrents 
every hour obstructing their way ; but as one after another fell exhausted 
or lifeless, the unlucky image passed from hand to hand, and was thus 
preserved up to the moment so eagerly and so confidently looked for, 
during that long and dreadful march, to end all their privations. 

But the chastisement of heaven, prefigured in the words of the expir- 
ing Abenaqui, had already overtaken them. Half- crazed by their suf- 

.^6 



266 THE HEAR 2^ OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

ferings, they mistook the place of rendezvous appointed by their chief, 
and, having no tidings of their comrades, beheved themselves to be the 
sole survivors of all that gallant but ill-fated band. In this conviction, 
to which a mournful destiny conducted, they took the fatal determina- 
tion to cross the mountains under the guidance of one of their number 
who had, or professed, a knowledge of the way through the Great Notch 
of the White Hills. 

F"or four days they dragged themselves onward through thickets, 
through deep snows and swollen streams, without sustenance of any 
kind, when three of them, in consequence of their complicated miseries, 
aggravated by finding no way through the wall of mountains, lost their 
senses. What leather covered their cartouch- boxes they had already 
scorched to a cinder and greedily devoured. At length, on the last days 
of October, as they were crossing a small river dammed by logs, they 
discovered some human bodies, not only scalped, but horribly mangled, 
which were supposed to be some of their own band. But this was no 
time for distinctions. On them they accordingly fell like cannibals, their 
impatience being too great to await the kindling of a fire to dress their 
horrid food by. When they had thus abated somewhat the excruciating 
pangs they before endured, the fragments were carefully collected for a 
future store. 

My pen refuses to record the dreadful extremities to which starvation 
reduced these miserable wretches. At length, after some days of fruit- 
less wandering up and down, finding the mountains inexorably closing 
in upon them, even this last dreadful resource failed, and, crawling under 
some rocks, they perished miserably in the delirium produced by hunger 
and despair, blaspheming, and hurling horrible imprecations at the silver 
image, to which, in their insanity, they attributed all their sufferings. 
One of them, seizing the statue, tottered to the edge of a precipice, and, 
exerting all his remaining strength, dashed it down into the gulf at his 
feet. 

Tradition affirms that the first settlers who ascended Israel's River 
found relics of the lost detachment near the foot of the mountains ; but, 
notwithstanding the most diligent search, the silver image has thus far 
eluded every effort made for its recovery. 



MOOSEHILLOCK. 267 



M 



VII. 

MOOSEHILLOCK. 

And so, when restless and adrift, I keep 

Great comfort in a quietness like this, 
An awful strength that lies in fearless sleep. 

On this great shoulder lay my head, nor miss 
The things I longed for but an hour ago. 

Sarah O. Jewett. 

OOSEHILLOCK, or Moosilauke,' is one of four or f^ve summits 
^.^ from which the best idea of the whole area of the White Moun- 
tains may be obtained. It is not so remarkable for its form as for its 
mass It is an immense mountain. 

Lifted in solitary grandeur upon the extreme borders of the army of 
peaks to which it belongs, and which it seems defending, haughtily over- 
bearing those lesser summits of the Green Mountains confronting it 
from the opposite shores of the Connecticut, which here separates the 
two crand systems, like two hostile armies, the one from the other, 
Moosehillock resembles a crouching lion, magnificent in repose, but ter- 
rible in its awakening. , , ., 

This immense strength, paralyzed and helpless though it seems, is 
nevertheless capable of arousing in us a sentiment of respectful fear- 
respect for the creative power, fear for the suspended life we believe is 
there. The mountain really seems lying extended under the sky listen- 
ing for the awful command, " Arise and walk !" 

g,ven to .t by the Ind.ans. On ^^e jnt'-an ^^^ Tecumseh; that they are 

r^pnnlp That these are sometmies far-tetcnea is seen m <->= 

iting the region contiguous to the mountam do not know ho« to spell 
guide-boards. 



268 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

This mountain received a name before Mount Washington, and is in 
some respects, as I hope to point out, the most interesting of the whole 
group. In the first place, it commands a hundred miles of the Connecti- 
cut \'alley, including, of course, all the great peaks of the Green Moun- 
tain and Adirondack chains. Again, its position confers decided advan- 
tages for studying the configuration of the Franconia group, to which, in 
a certain sense, it is allied, and of the ranges enclosing the Pemigewas- 
set Valley, which it overlooks. Moosehillock stands in the broad angle 
formed by the meeting waters of the Connecticut and the Ammonoosuc. 
In a word, it is an advanced bastion of the whole cluster of castellated 
summits, constituting the White Mountains in a larger meaning. 

Therefore no summit better repays a visit than Moosehillock ; yet 
it is astonishing, considering the ease of access, how few make the 
ascent. The traveller can hardly do better than begin here his expe- 
riences of mountain adventure, should chance conduct him this way; 
or, if making his exit from the mountain region by the Connecticut \'al- 
ley, he may, taking it in his way out, make this the appropriate pendant 
of his tours, romantic and picturesque. 

Having been so long known to and frequented by the Indian as well 
as white hunters, the mountain is naturally the subject of considerable 
legend,^ which the historian of Warren has scrupulously gathered to- 
gether. One of these tales, founded on the disaster of Rogers, recounts 
the sufferings of two of his men, hopelessly snared in the great Jobil- 
dunk ravine. But that tale of horror needs no embellishment from ro- 
mance. This enormous rent, equally hideous in fact as in name, cut 
into the vitals of the mountain so deeply that a dark stream gushes from 
the gaping wound, conceals within its mazes several fine cascades. Ow- 
ing to long-continued drought, the streams w^ere so puny and so languid 
when I visited the mountain that I explored only the upper portion of 
the gorge, which bristles with an untamed forest, levelling its myriad 
spears at the breast of the climber. 

The greater part of the mountain lies in the town of Benton, or, per- 
haps, it would be nearer the truth to say that fully half the township is 
appropriated by its prodigious earthwork. But, to reach it without un- 



' Speaking of legends, that of Rubenzal, of the Silesian mountains, is not unlike Ir\-ing"s 
legend of Rip Van Winkle and the Catskills. Both were Dutch legends. The Indian legends 
of Moosehillock are very like to those of high mountains, everjnvhere. 



MOOSEH ILLOCK. 269 

dergoing the fatigues of a long march through the woods, it is necessary 
to proceed to the village of Warren, which is twenty miles north of 
Plymouth, and about fourteen south of Haverhill. Behind the village 
rises Mount Carr. Still farther to the north the summits of Mounts 
Kineo, Cushman, and Waternomee, continuing this range now separating 
us from the Pemigewasset Valley, form also the eastern wall of the valley 
of Baker's River, which has its principal source in the ravines of Moose- 
hillock. There is a bridle-path opening communication with the moun- 
tain from the Benton side, on the north ; and so with Lisbon and Fran- 
conia. A carriage-road is also contemplated on that side, which will 
render access still more feasible for a large summer population ; while a 
bridle-path, lately opened between two peaks of the Carr range, facili- 
tates ingress from the Pemigewasset side. 

I set out from the village of Warren on one of the hottest afternoons 
of an intensely hot and dry summer. The five miles between the village 
and the base of the mountain need not detain the sight-seer. At the 
crossing of Baker's River I remarked again the granite -bed honey- 
combed with those curious pot-holes sunk by whirling stones, first set 
in motion and then spun around by the stream, which here, breaking 
up into several wild pitches, pours through a rocky gorge. But how 
gratefully cool and refreshing was even the sound of rushing water in 
that still, stifling atmosphere, coming, one would think, from a furnace ! 
Then for two miles more the horse crept along the road, constantly as- 
cending the side of the valley, until the last house was reached. Here 
we passed a turnpike-gate, rolled over the crisped turf of a stony pasture 
through a second gate, and were at the foot of Moosehillock. 

In a trice we exchanged the sultriness, the dryness, the dust, parching 
or suffocating us, of a shadeless road, for the cool, moist air of the moun- 
tain-forest and the delectable sound of running water. A brook shot 
past ; then another ; then the horse, who stopped when he liked, and as 
often as he liked, like a man forced to undertake a task which he is de- 
termined shall cost his task-masters dearly, began a languid progress up 
the increasing declivity before us. His sighs and groans, as he plodded 
wearily along, were enough to melt a heart of stone. I therefore dis- 
mounted and walked on, leaving the driver to follow as he could. The 
question was, not how the horse should get us up the mountain, but how 
we should get the horse up. 

They call it four and a half miles from the bottom to the top. The 



2/0 THE HEART OF THE UHJTE M O L' X T A J S S . 

distances indicated by the sign -boards, nailed to trees, did not appear 
to me exact. They are not exact ; and the reason why they are not is 
sufficiently original to merit a word of explanation. Having long ob- 
served the effect of imagination, especially in computing distances, the 
builder of the road, as he himself informed me, adopted a truly ingen- 
ious method of his own. He lengthened or shortened his miles accord- 
ing as the travelling was good or bad. For example: the first mile, be- 
ing an easy one, was stretched to a mile and a quarter. The last mile 
is also very good travelling. That, too, he lengthened to a mile and a 
half. In this way he reduced the intervening two and a half miles of 
the worst road to one and three-fourth miles. This absolutely harmless 
piece of deception, he averred, considerably shortened the most difficult 
part of the journey. No one complained that the good miles were too 
long, while the bad ones were now passed over with far less grumbling 
than before they were abbreviated by this simple expedient, which very 
few, I am convinced, would have thought of. In fact, the sum of the 
whole distance being scrupulously adhered to, it is the most civil piece 
of engineering of which I have any knowledge. 

The road up is rough, tedious, and, until the ridge at the foot of 
the south peak is reached, uninteresting. It crooks and turns with abso- 
lute lawlessness while climbing the flanks of the southern peak, skirting 
also the side of the profound ravine eating its way into the mountain 
from the south. Nearing this summit we obtained through an opening 
a glimpse of Mount Washington, veiled in the clouds. The trees now 
visibly dwindled. Just before reaching the ridge, where it joins this 
peak, a fine spring, deliciously cold, gushed from the mountain side. 
A few rods more of ascent brought us quite out upon the long, narrow, 
curving backbone of the mountain, uplifting its sharp edge between two 
profound gorges, connecting the peaks set at its two extremes, between 
which Nature has decreed a perpetual divorce. The sun was just set- 
ting as we emerged upon this natural way conducting from peak to 
peak along the airy crest of the mountain. 

Although this, it will be remembered, is one of the longest miles, 
according to the scale of computation in vogue here, the unexpected 
speed which the horse now put forth, the sight of the squat, little Tip- 
Top House, clinging to the summit beyond, the upper and nether worlds 
floating or fading in splendor, while the night- breezes sweeping over 
cooled our foreheads, and rudely jostled the withered trees, drawn a little 



MOOSEHILLOCK. 271 



apart to the right and left to let us pass, quickly replaced that weari- 
ness of mind and body which the mountain exacts of all who pass over 
it on a sultry midsummer's day. 

At the extremity of the ridge, which is only wide enough for the 
road, a gradual ascent led to the high summit and to a level plateau of 
a few acres at its top. This was treeless, but covered with something 
like soil, smooth, and, being singularly free from the large stones found 
everywhere else, affords good walking in any direction. The house is 
built of rough stone, and, though of primitive construction, is comforta- 
ble, and even inviting. Furthermore, its materials being collected on 
the spot, one accepts it as still constituting a part of the mountain, 
which, indeed, at a little distance it really seems to be. In the evening 
I went out, to find the mountain blindfolded with clouds. Soon rain 
began to drive against the window-panes in volleys. At a late hour we 
heard wheels grinding on the rocks outside, and then a party of tourists 
drove up to the door, dripping and crestfallen at having undertaken the 
ascent with a storm staring them in the face. But they had only this 
one day, they said, and were "bound" to go up the mountain. So up 
they toiled through pitch darkness, through rain and cloud, passed the 
nio-ht in a building said to be on the summit, and returned down the 
mountain in the morning, to catch their train, through as dense a fog as 
ever exasperated a hurried tourist. But they had been to the top ! Are 
there anywhere else in the world people who travel two hundred miles 
for a single day's recreation .'' 

It is very curious, this bemg domesticated on the top of a mountain. 
We go to bed wondering if the scene will not all vanish in our dreams. 
It was very odd, too, to see the tourists silently mount their buck-board 
in the morning, and disappear, within a stone's throw, in clouds. De- 
taching themselves to all intents from earth, they began a flight in air. 
Walking a short distance, perhaps a gunshot, from the house, I groped 
my way back with difficulty. The case seemed desperate. 

But grandest scene of all was the breaking up of the storm. Shortly 
after noon the high sun began to exert a sensible influence upon the 
clouds. A perceptible warmth, replacing the chill and clammy mists, 
began to pervade the mountain -top. Presently a dim sun -ray shot 
throuf^h. Then, as if a noiseless explosion had suddenly rent them, the 
whole mass of clouds was torn in ten thousand tatters fliying through 
space. All nature seemed seized with sudden frenzy. Here a summit 



2-] 2 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

and there a peak was seen, struggling fiercely in the grasp of the storm. 
Coming up with rushing noise, the west wind charged home the routed 
storm-clouds with fresh squadrons. What indescribable yet noiseless tu- 
mult raged in the heavens ! Even the mountains seemed scarcely able 
to stem the tide of fugitives. A panic seized them. Fear gave them 
wings. They rushed pell-mell into the ravines and clung to the tree- 
tops ; they dashed themselves blindly against the adamant of Lafayette, 
only to fall back broken into the deep fosse beneath. Bolts of dazzling 
sunshine continually tore through them. The gorges themselves seemed 
heaped with the wounded and the dying. But the rushing wind, tram- 
pling the fugitives down, dispersed and cut them mercilessly to pieces. 
One was irresistibly carried away by this rage of battle. In ten minutes 
I looked around upon a clear sky. One cloud, impaled on the gleam- 
ing spear of Lafayette, hung limp and lifeless ; another floated like a 
scarf from the polished casque of Chocorua ; a third, taken prisoner cii 
rojitc, humbly held the train of Washington. All the rest of the phan- 
tom host, using its power to render itself invisible, vanished from sight 
as if the mountains had swallowed it up. 

The landscape being now fully uncovered, I enjoyed all its rare per- 
fection. It is a superb and fascinating one, invested with a powerful 
individuality, surrounded by a charm of its own. You wish to see the 
two great chains .'' There they are, the greater rising over the lesser, in 
the order fixed by Nature. That sunny space in the softened coloring of 
old tapestry, more to the right, is the Pemigewasset Valley, and the spot 
from where not long ago we looked up at this mountain looming large 
in the distance. We raise our eyes to glance up the East Branch upon 
Mount Hancock and the peaks of Carrigain peeping over. We touch 
with magic wand the faint cone of Kearsarge, so dim that it seems as 
if it must rise and float away ; then, continuing to call the roll of moun- 
tains. Moat, Tripyramid, Chocorua, and all our earlier acquaintances rise 
or nod among the Sandwich peaks. .Some draw their cloud -draperies 
over their bare shoulders, some sun their naked and hairy breasts in 
savage luxury. We alight like a bird upon the glassy bosom of Winne- 
piseogee the incomparable, and, like the bird, again rise, refreshed, for 
flights still more remote. We sweep over the Uncanoonucs into Massa- 
chusetts, steadying the eye upon far Wachusett as we pass from the Mer- 
rimac Valley. Now come thronging in upon us the mountains of the 
Connecticut Valley. We rest awhile upon the transcendently beautiful 



J/ O O Sli NIL I. O CK. 273 

expanse of the Ox-Bow, and its playthings of villages, strung along the 
glittering necklace of the river. Across this valley, lifting our eyes, we 
wander among the loftiest peaks of the Green Mountains — those colossal 
vcj'd-antiqiics — exchanging frozen glances across the placid expanse of 
Champlain with the haughtiest summits of the Adirondacks. We grow 
tired of this. One last look, this time up the valley, reveals to us the 
wide and curious gap between two distant mountains, and far beyond 
Memphremagog, where these mountains rise, we scan all the route trav- 
elled by Rogers, the perils of which are fresh in our memory. We pass 
on unchallenged into the dominions of Victoria. 

Is not this a landscape worth coming ten miles out of one's way to 
see.? And yet the half is not told. I have merely indicated its dimen- 
sions. Now let the reader, drawing an imaginary line from peak to 
peak, go over at leisure all that lies between. I merely prick the chart 
for him. jMoosehillock, not quite five thousand feet high, overlooks all 
New Hamjjshire, pushes investigation into Maine and Massachusetts, is 
familiar with Vermont, distant with New York, and has an eye upon 
Canada. It is said the ocean has been seen, but I did not see it. 

Circumstances compelled me to drive the old horse, who has made 
more ascensions of the mountain than any living thing, back to Warren. 
No other was to be had for love or money. Had there been time I 
would have preferred walking, but there was not. This horse measured 
sixteen hands. His thin body and long legs resembled a horse upon 
stilts. He looked dejected, but resigned. I argued that he would be 
able to get down the mountain somehow ; and, once out of the woods. 
I could count on his eagerness to get home, to some extent, perhaps. 
I was not deceived in either expectation. 

The road, as I have said, is for most of the way a rough, steep, and 
stony one. In order to check the havoc made by sudden showers, and 
to hold the thin soil in place, hemlock -boughs were spread over it, art- 
fully concealing those protruding stones which the scanty soil refused 
to cover. He who intrusted himself to it did not find it a bed of roses. 
The buck -board was the longest, clumsiest, and most ill-favored it has 
ever been my lot to see. This vehicle, being peculiar to the mountains, 
demands, at least, a word. It is a very primitive and ingenious affair, and 
cheaply constructed. Naturally, therefore, it originated where the farm- 
ers were poor and the roads bad. But what is the buck-board.? Every 
one has seen the spring-board of a gymnasium or of a circus. A smooth 

37 



74 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOl'XTAIXS. 



plank, ten feet long, resting upon trestles placed at either end, assists the 
acrobat to vault high in the air. Each time he falls the rebound sends 
him up again. This is the principle of the buck -board. Remove the 
trestles, put a pair of wheels in the place of each, and you have the vehi- 
cle itself, minus shafts or pole, according as one or two horses are to 
draw it. Increased weight bends the board or the spring more and 



^^ 



^^^ 










THE iilCK-BOARD WAGON. 



more until it is in danger of touching the ground. The passengers sit 
in the hollow of this spring, the natural tendency of which is to shoot 
them into the air. 

I am justified in speaking thus of the road and the vehicle. But 
who shall describe the horse ? That animal was possessed of a devil, 
and, like the swine of the miracle, ran violently all the way down the 
mountain, without stopping for water or breath. Fortunate indeed for 
me was it that the sea was not at the bottom. In three-quarters of an 



MOOSE HILLOCK. 275 

hour, half of which was spent in the air, I was at the foot of the moun- 
tain which had required two tedious liours to ascend. How the quad- 
ruped managed to avoid falHng headlong fifty times over the concealed 
stones I have no idea. How I contrived to alight, when a wheel, 
coming violently against one of these stones, put the spring-board in 
play — how I contrived to alight, I remark, during this game of battle- 
door and shuttlecock, never twice in the same place, is to this day an 
enigma. 

The houses of ancient Rome frequently bore the inscription for the 
benefit of strangers, " Cave caiwm." This could be advantageously re- 
placed here, upon the first turnpike -gate, at the mountain's foot, with 
the warning, " Beware of the horse !"' 



276 THE HE ART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



VIII. 

BETHLEHEM. 

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! 

Tfliich. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. 

As You Likf It. 

HAV'ING finished with the western approach to the White Moun- 
tains, I was now at Hberty to retrace my route up tlie Ammon- 
oosuc Valley, which so abounds in picturescjue details — farms, hamlets, 
herds, groups of pines, maples, torrents, roads feeling their way up the 
heights — to that anomaly of mountain towns, Bethlehem. Thanks to 
the locomotive, the journey is short. The villages of Bath, Lisbon, Lit- 
tleton, are successively entered ; the same flurry gives a momentary activ- 
ity to each station, the same faces crowd the platforms, and the same 
curiosity is exhibited by the passengers, whose excitement receives an 
increase with every halt of the laboring train. 

Bethlehem is ranged high up, along the side of a mountain, like the 
best china in a cupboard. The crest of Mount Agassiz' rises behind it. 
Beneath the village the ground descends, rather abruptly, to the Ammon- 
oosuc, which winds, through matted woods, its way out of the mountains. 
There are none of those eye-catching gleams of water which so agreea- 
bly diversify these interminable miles of forest and mountain land. 

It is only by ascending the slopes of Mount Agassiz that we can 
secure a stand-point fairly showing the commanding position of Bethle- 
hem, or where its immediate surroundings may be viewed all at once. It 
is so situated, with respect to the curvature of this mountain, that at one 
end of the village they do not know what is going on at the other. One 



' In the valley of the Aar, at the head of the Aar glacier, in Switzerland, is a peak named 
for Agassiz, who thus has two enduring monuments, one in his native, the other in his adopted 
land. The eminent Swiss scientist spent much time among the White Mountains. 



BETHLEHEM. 277 

end revels in the wide panorama of the west, the other holds the unsur- 
passed view of the great peaks to the east. 

Bethlehem lias risen, almost by magic, at the point where the old 
highway up the Ammonoosuc is intersected by that coming from Plym- 
outh, the Pemigewasset Valley, and the Profile House. In time a small 
roadside hamlet naturally clustered about this spot. Dr. Timothy 
Dwight, the pioneer traveller for health and pleasure among these 
mountains, passed through here in 1S03. Speaking of the appearance 
of Bethlehem, he says : " There is nothing which merits notice, except 
the patience, enterprise, and hardihood of the settlers which have in- 
duced them to stay upon so forbidding a spot; a magnificent prospect 
of the White Mountains ; and a splendid collection of other mountains 
in their neighborhood, particularly on the south-west." It was then 
reached by only one wretched road, which passed the Ammonoosuc by 
a dangerous ford. The few scattered habitations were mere log- cabins, 
rough and rude. The few planting -fields were still covered with dead 
trees, stark and forbidding, which the settlers, unable to fell with the 
axe, killed by girdling, as the Indians did. 

From this historical picture of Bethlehem in the past, we turn to the 
Bethlehem of to-day. It is turning from the post-rider to the locomotive. 
Not a single feature is recognizable except the splendid prospect of the 
White Mountains, and the magnificent collection of other mountains, 
which call forth the same admiration to-day. Fortunate^ geographical 
position, salubrity, fine scenery — these, and these alone, are the legiti- 
mate cause of what may be termed the rise and progress of Bethlehem. 
All that the original settlers seem to have accomplished is to clear away 
the forests which intercepted, and to make the road conducting to the 
view. 

It is the position of Bethlehem with respect to the recognized points 
or objects of interest that gives to it a certain strategic advantage. For 
example, it is admirably situated for excursions north, south, east, or 
west. It is ten miles to the Profile, twelve to the Fabyan, seventeen to 
the Crawford, fifteen to the Waumbek, and eighteen to the base of 
Mount Washington. One can breakfast at Bethlehem, dine on Mount 
W' ashington, and be back for tea : and he can repeat the experience with 
respect to the other points named as often as inclination may prompt. 
Moreover, the great elevation e.xempts Bethlehem from the malaria and 
heat of the valleys. The air is dry, pure, and invigorating, rendering 



2 78 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

it the paradise of those invahds who suffer from periodical attacks of 
hay -fever. Lastly, it is new, or comparatively new, and possesses the 
charm of novelty — not the least consideration to the thousands who are 
in pursuit of that and that only. 

Bethlehem Street is the legitimate successor of the old road. This 
is a name sui gciicris which seems hardly appropriate here, although it 
is so commonly applied to the principal thoroughfares of our inland New 
England villages. It has a spick-and-span look, as if sprung up like a 
bed of mushrooms in a night. And so, in fact, it has ; for Bethlehem as 
a summer resort dates only a few years back its sudden rise from com- 
parative obscurity into the full blaze of popular fame and favor. The 
guide-book of fifteen years ago speaks of the one small but comfortable 
hotel, kept by the Hon. J. G. Sinclair. In fact, very little account was 
made of it by travellers, except to remark the magnificent view of the 
White Mountains on the east, or of the Franconia Mountains on the 
south, as they passed over the then prescribed tour from North Conway 
to Plymouth, or vice versa. 

But this newness, which you at first resent, besides introducing here 
and there some few attempts at architectural adornment, contrasts very 
agreeably with the ill -built, rambling, and slip -shod appearance of the 
older village-centres. They are invariably most picturesque from a dis- 
tance. But here there is an evident effort to render the place itself at- 
tractive by making it beautiful. Good taste generally prevails. I sus- 
pect, however, that the era of good taste, beginning with the incoming of 
a more refined and intelligent class of travellers, communicated its spirit 
to two or three enterprising and sagacious men,' who saw in what Nature 
had done an incentive for their own efforts. We walk here in a broad, 
well - built thoroughfare, skirted on both sides with hotels, boarding- 
houses, and modern cottages, in which four or five thousand sojourners 
annually take refuge. All this has grown from the " one small hotel " of 
a dozen years ago. Shade -trees and grass-plots beautify the way -side. 
An immense horizon is visible from these houses, and even the hottest 
summer days are rendered endurable by the light airs produced and set 
in motion by the oppressive heats of the valley. The sultriest season is, 
therefore, no bar to out-of-door exercise for persons of average health. 



' Such, for example, as the Hon. J. G. Sinclair, Isaac Cruft. Esq., and e.\-Governor Howard 
of Rhode Lsland. 



BETHLEHEM. 279 

rendering walks, rambles, or drives subject only to the will or caprice of 
the jDleasure-seeker. But in the evening all these houses arc emptied of 
their occupants. The whole village is out-of-doors, enjoying the coolness 
or the panorama with all the zest unconstrained gratification always 
brings. The multitudes of well-dressed promenaders surprise every new- 
comer, who immediately thinks of Saratoga or Newport, and their social 
characteristics. Bethlehem, he thinks, must be the ideal of those who 
would carry city or, at least, suburban life among the mountains; who 
do not care a fig for solitude, but prefer to find their pleasures still con- 
nected with their home life. They are seeing life and seeing nature at 
the same time. 

Sauntering along the street from the Sinclair House, a strikingly 
large and beautiful prospect opens as we come to the Belleview. Here 
the road, making its exit from the village, descends to the Ammonoosuc. 
The valley broadens and deepens, exposing to view all the town of Lit- 
tleton, picturesquely scattered about the distant hill -sides. Its white 
houses resemble a bank of daisies. The hills take an easy attitude 
of rest. Six hundred feet below us the bottom of the valley exhibits 
its rich savannas, interspersed with cottages and groves. Above its 
deep hollow the Green Mountains glimmer in the far west. " Ah !" you 
say, " we will stop here." 

Let us now again, leaving the Sinclair House behind, ascend the 
road to the Profile. It is not so much travelled as it was before the 
locomotive, in his coat -of -mail, sounded his loud trumpet at the gates 
of Franconia. A mile takes us to the brow of the hill. We hardly 
know which way to look first. Two noble and comprehensive views 
present themselves. To the left Mount Agassiz rears his commanding 
peak. In front of us, across a valley, is the great, deeply -cloven Fran- 
conia Notch. Lafayette is superb here. Now the large, compact mass 
of Moosehillock looms on the extreme right, together with all those 
striking objects lately studied or observed from the village of Franconia, 
which so quietly reposes beneath us. But this landscape properly be- 
longs to the environs of Bethleheni, and never is it so incomparably 
grand as when the summits are fitfully revealed, battling fiercely with 
storm-clouds. Every phase of the conflict is watched with eager atten- 
tion. Seeing all this passion above, it calls up a smile to look down 
at the unbroken and unconscious tranquillity of the valley. 

Facino- now in the direction of Bethlehem, the eye roves over the 



2 8o THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 




MOUNT LAFAYETTE, FROM BETHLEHEM 



broad basin of the Ammonoosuc for many 
miles up and down. The hills of Littleton, White- 
field, Dalton, Carrol], and Jefferson bend away from the opposite 
side; and over the last the toothed Percy Peaks' rise blue and clear 



' The twin Percy Peaks, which we saw in the north, rise in the south-east corner of Strat- 
ford. Their name was probably derived from the township now called Stark, and formerly 
Percy. The township was named by Governor Wentworth in honor of Hugh, Earl of North- 



BETHLEHEM. 281 

at the point where the waters of the Connecticut and tlic Androscoggm, 
approaching each other, conduct the Grand Trunk Railway out of the 
mountains. The west is packed with the high summits of the Green 
Mountain chain. The great White Mountains are concealed, as yet, by 
the swell of the mountain down whose side the road conducts to the 
village. "This," you exclaim, "this is the spot where we will pitch our 
tents !" But there is no public-house here, and we are reluctantly forced 
to descend. In proportion as we go down, this seemingly limitless pano- 
rama suffers a partial eclipse. The landscape changes from the high- 
wrought epic to the grand pastoral, if such a distinction may be applied 
to differing forms of mountain scenery. This approach is, without 
doubt, the most striking introduction to Bethlehem. It is curiously 
instructive, too, as regards the relative merits of successive elevations, 
each higher than the other, as proper view-points. 

A third ramble is altogether indispensable before we can say that we 
know Bethlehem of the Hills. The direction is now to the east, by the 
road to the Crawford House, or Fabyan's, or the Twin. We continue 
along the high plateau, in the shade of sugar-maples or Lombardy pop- 
lars, to the eastern skirt of the village, the houses getting more and more 
unfrecjuent, until we come upon the edge of the slope to the Ammon- 
oosuc, where the road to Whitefield, Lancaster, and Jefferson, leaving the 
main thoroughfare, drops cjuietly down into Bethlehem Hollow. No en- 
vious hill now obstructs the truly "magnificent view." Through the 
open valley the lordly mountains again inthrall us with the might of an 
overpowering majesty. 

This locality has taken the name of the great hotel erected here 
by Isaac Cruft. whose hand is visible everywhere in Bethlehem. The 
Maplewood, as it is called, easily maintains at its own end the prestige 
of Bethlehem for rapid growth. When I first visited the place, in 1875, 
I found a modest roadside hostelry accommodating sixty guests; five 
years later a mammoth structure, in which six hundred could be accom- 
modated, had risen, like Aladdin's palace, on the same spot. Instead 
of our little musical entertainment, our mock -trial, our quiet rubber of 
whist, of an evening, there were readings, lectures, balls, masquerades, 
theatricals, imisicalcs, for every day of the week. 



umberland, who figured in the early days of the American Revolution. The adjoining town 
ship of Northumberland is also commemorative of the same princely house. 

-,8 



2Sr THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

But I is emphatically the place of sunsets. In this resf>ect 

no other mountain resort can pretend to equal iL From no other 
ATllage are so many mountains \-isible at once; at no other has the 
landscape such length and breadth for gixing full effect to these truly 
wonderful displays. More because the sublimit)" of the scene desenes 
a permanent chronicle than from any confidence in my ovra ability to 
reproduce it, I attempt in black and white to describe one of unpjaral- 
leled intensit}" of color, one that may never be repeated, certainly never 
excelled, while the sun, the heavens, and the mountains shall last. 

A cold drizzle ha\-ing set in on the day of my arri%-al. the mountains 
were in^^sible when I rose in the morning. I looked, but they were no 
longer there, I was much ^-exed at the prospect of being storm-bound, 
or of making under compulsion a sojourn I had beforehand resolved to 
make at my own good will and pleasure. So strongly is the spirit of 
resistance developed in us. After a critical investigation of the weather, 
it crossed my mind like an intuition that something extraordinary was 
preparing behind the enormous masses of clouds clinging like wet dra- 
peries to the skirts of the mountains, forming an impenetrable curtain, 
now and then slowly lifted by the fresh north wind, now suddenh" dis- 
tended or collapsing like huge sails, but noiselessly and mj-steriously as 
the ghostly can\"as of the Flying Dukhnian. 

Toward the middle of the afternoon, the wind haxing freshened, the 
lower clouds broke apart here and there — just enough to reveal to us 
that ever-new picture of the White Mountains, beautifulh" robed in fresh 
snow, above the darker line of forest ; but so thoroughl}- were the high 
summits blended with the dull silver-gray of upper sky that the true line 
of separation defied the keenest scrutiny to detect it This produced a 
curious optical illusion. Extended sumptuously along the crest -line, 
ri\-alling the snow itself, a bank of white clouds rendered the deception 
perfect, since "jst above them began that hea\y and dull expanse which 
oversprea -kened the whole heavens, thus imperfectly delineat- 

ing a sec^,.^ .... ^f simimits mounting to a prodigious height. They 
seemed miles uf)on miles high. 

Up stretched this gigantic and shadowy phantasm of towers, domes, 
and j>eaks, illimitably, as if mountains and heavens were indeed come to- 
gether in eternal alliance. At the same time the finger dipped in water 
could trace a more conclusive outline on glass than the eye could find 
here. The summits, a little luminous, emitted a cold, spectral glare. It 



BETHLEHEM. 2S3 

gave you a chill to look at them. No sky, no earth, no deep gorges, no 
stark precipices — no anything except that dead wall, so sepulchral in its 
gray gloom that equally mind and imagination failed to find one famil- 
iar outline or contour. The true peaks seemed clouds, and the clouds 
peaks. But this phantasm was only the prologue. 

At the hour of sunset all the lower clouds had disappeared. The 
upper heavens now wore that deep grape-purple impervious to light or 
warmth, and producing the effect of a vast dome hung with black. The 
storm replaced the azure tint of the sky with the most sombre color in 
its laboratory. The light visibly waned. The icy peaks still reflected a 
boreal glitter. But in the west these funereal draperies fell a little short 
of touching the edge of the horizon — a bare hands-breadth — leaving a 
crevice filled with golden light, pure and limpid as water, clear and vivid 
as winnowed sunshine. The sun's eye would soon be applied to this 
peep-hole. A feverish impatience seized us. We could see the people 
at their doors and in the street standing silent and expectant, with their 
faces turned to the heavens. From a station near Cruft's Ledge we 
watched intently for the moment when this splendid light, concentrated 
in one level sheet, should fall upon the great mountains. 

In a few seconds a yellow spot of piercing brilliancy appeared in 
this narrow band of light. One look at it was blinding; a second 
would have paralyzed the optic nerve. Mechanically we put up our 
hands to shut it out. Imagine a stream of molten iron — hissing-hot and 
throwing off fiery spray — gushing from the side of a furnace! Even 
that can give but a feeble idea of the unspeakable intensity of this 
last sun -ray. It blazed. It flooded us with a suffocating effulgence. 
Suppose now this cataract of liquid flame suddenly illuminating the 
pitchy darkness of a cavern in the bowels of the earth. The effect was 
electrifying. Confined between the upper and nether expanse — dull 
earth and brooding sky — rendered tenfold more dazzling by the black- 
ness above, beneath, the sun poured upon the great mountains one mag- 
nificent torrent of radiance. In an instant the broad land was deluged 
with the supreme glories of that morning when the awful voice of God 
uttered the sublime command, 

■Let there be light, and there was lit^lit." 

An electric shock awoke the torpid earth, transfigured the mountains. 
On swept the mighty wave, shedding light, and warmth, and splendor 



2S4 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

where a moment before all was dark, cold, and spiritless. Like Ajax be- 
fore Troy, the giant hills braced on their dazzling armor. Like Achilles's 
shield, they threw back the brightness of the sun. Every tree stood 
sharply out. Every cavern disclosed its inmost secrets. Twigs glittered 
diamonds, leaves emitted golden rays. All was ravishingly beautiful. 

This superb exhibition continued while one might count a hundred. 
Then all the lower mountains took on that ineffable purple that baffles 
description. Starr King, Cherry Mountain, were resplendent. As if the 
livid and thick-clustered clouds above had been trodden by invisible feet, 
these peaks seemed drenched with the juice of the wine-press. The high 
summits, buried in snow and cloud, were yet coldly impassive, but 
presently, little by little, the light crept up and up. Now it seized the 
topmost pinnacles. Heavens, what a sight! Ineffable glory seemed 
quenched in the sublime terrors of that moment. On our right the 
Twin and Franconia mountains glowed, from base to summit, like coals 
of fire. The lower forests were wrapped in flame. Then all the snowy 
line of peaks, from Adams to Clinton, turned blood-red. No pale rose 
or carnation tints, as in those enrapturing summer sunsets so often wit- 
nessed here. The stupendous and flaming mountains of hell seemed 
risen before us, clothed with immortal terrors. We stood rooted to the 
spot, like men who saw the judgment-day dawning, the solid earth con- 
suming, before their doubting eyes. Everlasting, unquenchable fires 
seemed encompassing us about. Nothing more weird, more unearthly, 
or more infernal was ever seen. Even the country -people, stolid and 
indifferent as they usually are, regarded it with mingled stupefaction 
and dismay. 

The drama approached its climax. Before we were aware, the valley 
grew dark. But still, the granite peaks of Lafayette, and of that admira- 
ble pyramid which even the puerile name it bears cannot reduce to im- 
potence, glowed like red-hot iron drawn from the fire. Their incandes- 
cent points, thrust upward into the black gulf of the heavens, towered 
above the blacker gulfs below unspeakably. By degrees the scorching 
heat cooled. The great Franconia spires successively paled. But long- 
after they seemed reduced to ashes, the red flame still lingered upon the 
snows of Mount Washington. At last that, too, faded out. Life was 
extinct. The great summit took on a wan and livid hue. Night kindly 
spread her mantle over the lifeless form of the mountain, which still 
disclosed its larger outlines rigid, majestic, even in death. 



B ETHL E HE AI . 285 

Twilight succeeded — twilight steeped in silence and coolness, in the 
thousand odors exhaled by the teeming earth. One by one the birds 
hushed their noisy twitter. Overcome by their own perfumes, flowers 
shut their dewy petals and drooped their tender little heads. The river 
seemed a drowsy voice rising from the depths of the forest, complaining 
that it alone should toil on while all else reposed. With night comes 
the feeling of immensity. With sleep the conviction that we are nothing, 
and that the order of nature disturbs itself in nothing for us. If we 
awake, well ; if not, well again. What if we should never wake } One 
such splendid pageant as I have attempted to describe instinctively 
quenches human pride. It is true, a sunset is in itself nothing, but it 
compels you to admit that the world moves for itself, not for you. Be- 
lieve it not a gorgeous display in which you, the critical spectator, as- 
sist, but the signal that the day ends and the night cometh. A spec- 
tacle that can arouse the emotions of joy, fear, hope, suspense — nothing.? 
Perhaps. God knows. 

There are very pleasant walks, affording fine views of all the highest 
mountains, around the eastern slope or to the summit of the mountain 
rising at the back of the hotel. The bare but grassy crest of this moun- 
tain, one of my favorite haunts, enabled me to reconnoitre my route in 
advance up the valley, and to look over into the yet unvisited region of 
Jefferson, or back again, at the environs of Franconia. The glory that 
pours down upon these hills, the vales they infold, the wild streams, the 
craggy mountain spurs, the soft, velvety clearings that turn their dimpled 
cheeks to be kissed by the sunshine, may all be seen and fully enjoyed 
from this spot. 

The heights behind us are well -wooded on the summits, but below 
this belt of woodland extends a broad band of sunny clearings checkered 
with fields of waving grain. These fields are among the highest culti- 
vated lands in New England. Long tillage was necessary to reduce this 
refractory soil to subjection. Farther down, toward the railway-station, 
the pastures are so encumbered with stones that a sheep would turn 
from them in dismay. To mow among these stones a man would have 
to go down on his knees. 

There is a beautiful orchard of sugar- maples down the road to the 
Hollow; but it always makes me sad to see these trees standing with 
their naked sides pierced and bleeding from gaping wounds. 

At the corner of this road my attention was arrested by a sign-board 



286 THE HEART OF THE WHITE .)/ O C'.V TA 7 XS. 

planted in front of an unpainted cottage, behind which rose a clump of 
magnificent birches. I walked over to see what it could mean. The 
sign -board bore the name "Sir Isaac Newton Gay," in large black let- 
ters. Here was a spur to curiosity ! A knight, or at least a baronet, 
living in humble seclusion, yet parading his quality thus in the face of 
the world ! Going to the gate, my perplexity increased upon seeing the 
grass-plot in front of the dwelling literally covered with broken glass, 
lamp-chimneys, bits of colored china, bottles of every imaginable shape 
and size stuck upright upon sticks, interspersed with lumps of white 
quartz. Some cabalistic meaning, doubtless, attached to the display. 
This brilliant rubbish sparkled in the sun, filling the enclosure with the 
cheap glitter of a pawnbroker's shop -window. The thing so far an- 
nounced a little eccentricity, at least, so I made bold to push my inves- 
tigation still farther, and was rewarded by finding, piled against the 
trunk of a tree, at the back of the house, a heap of skulls of animals as 
high as my head. The recluse's intent was now plain. Here was a 
lesson that he who ran might read. The rubbish in the front yard illus- 
trated the pomp, glitter, and emptiness of life ; the monument of skulls 
its true estate, divested of all false show or pretence. Without doubt 
this was a philosopher worthy of his name. 

I was admitted by a singular- looking being, with dry, straight, lank 
hair, weak features, watery eyes, and a shufifling gait. Some accident 
having partially closed one eye, gave him a look of preternatural wis- 
dom. He was ready to give an opinion on any subject under the sun, 
no matter how difificult or abstruse, as soon as broached, and stroked his 
scanty beard while doing so with evident self-complacency. I had a 
moment to see that the walls were papered with old handbills of county 
fairs, travelling shows, and the like, the floor covered with patches of 
carpet as various as Joseph's coat, when my man began a formula simi- 
lar to what the Bearded Lady drawls out or the Tattooed Man recites 
through his nose to gaping rustics at a country muster, at ten cents a 
head. He told where he was born, how old he was, and how long he 
had lived in Bethlehem. At the proper moment I put my hand in my 
pocket and took out a dime, which he thankfully accepted, and dropped 
inside a broken coffee-pot. 

"Sir," I obser\'ed, " seeing you are American -born, I infer your title 
must have been conferred by some foreign potentate ?" 

" No ; that is mv name." 



BETHLEHEM. 287 

" But," I pursued, " has it not an unrepublican sound in a country 
where titles are regarded with distrust, not to say aversion ?" 

" I tell you it is my name," with some heat ; " I was named for the 
great Sir Isaac Newton." 

" Your pardon, Sir Isaac. May I ask if you inherit the genius of 
your distinguished namesake .''" 

" Well, yes, to some extent I do ; I philoserphize a good deal. I 
read a good many books folks leaves here, besides what newspapers I 
can pick up ; but you see it costs a lifetime to get knowledge." 

Jaques, the misanthrope, wandering in the Forest of Arden, was not 
more astonished at Touchstone's philosophy than I at this answer. 
" Very true," I assented. " What is your philosophy of life ?" 

He tapped his forehead with his forefinger, but it was only too evi- 
dent the apartment was untenanted. He remained a moment or two as 
if in deep thought, and then began, 

"Well, I'm eighty-si.\ years of age, come next July." 
My ffesh began to creep: he was beginning, for the third time, his 
eternal formula. The hermit, fumbling a red handkerchief, resumed, 

" I can say I've never wanted for necessaries, and don't propose to 
give myself any trouble about it." And then he expatiated on the folly 
of fretfulness. 

The Hermit of Bethlehem, as he is called, but who opens his door 
wide for the world to enter, is a very ordinary sort of hermit indeed. 
Still, his very feebleness of intellect, his vanity even, should be a shield 
instead of a target for those who, like myself, are lured by the unmean- 
ing trumpery at his door, which has no other significance in the world 
than a childish passion for objects that glitter in the sun. 

The constituents of hotel life do not belong to any locality: they 
are universal. It is curious to see here people who have spent half 
their lives in India, or China, or Australia moving about among the 
untravelled with the well-bred ease and adaptation to circumstances 
that newly -fledged tourists can neither understand nor imitate. It is 
very droll, too. that people who have lived ten years in the same street, 
at home, without knowing each other, meet here for the first time. 

I beg to introduce another acquaintance picked up by the road- 
side while walking from the Twin Mountain House to Bethlehem. 
Had I been driving, the incident would still have waited for a narrator. 
Climbing the hill-side at a snail's pace was a peddler's cart, drawn by 



288 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 

a scrubby little white horse, and bearing a new broom for an ensign, 
which seemed to symbolize that this petty trader meant to sweep the 
road clean of its loose cash. The sides of the cart were gayly decorated 
with pans, basins, dippers by the dozen, and bristled with knickknacks 
for barter or ready mone\% from a gridiron to a door- mat. The move- 
ment of the vehicle over the stony road kept up a lively clatter, which 
announced its coming from afar. There being, for the moment, no house 
in sight, the proprietor was engaged in picking raspberries by the road- 
side. 

The peddler — well, he was little, and stubby too. like his horse, 
for whom he had dismounted to lighten the pull u{>hill. The animal 
seemed to know his business, for he stopped short as often as he came 
to a water-bar. blew a cloud from his nostrils, champed his bit. and dis- 
tended his sides so alarmingly with a long, deep respiration, that the 
patched- up harness seemed in danger of bursting. He then glanced 
over his shoulder toward his master, shook his head deprecatingly, and. 
with a deep sigh, moved on. 

The little merchant of small wares and great had on a rusty felt 
hat, rakishly set on one side of his bullet head, and a faded olive-green 
coat, rather short in the skirts, to conceal two patches in his trousers. 
The latter were tucked into a pair of dusty boots ver\- much turned up 
at the toes. His face was a good deal sunburnt, and his hair, eye- 
brows, and mustache were the color of the road — sandy. Except a 
pair of scissors, the points of which protruded from his left-hand vest- 
pocket, I perceived no weapon offensive or defensive about him. He 
was a very innocent-looking peddler indeed. 

As I was passing him he held out a handful of ripe fruit. The hand 
was disfigured with an ugly cicatrice : it was rather dirty. He accom.- 
panied the offer with an invitation to " hop on " his cart and ride. This 
double civility emanated from a gentleman and a peddler. 

The walk from Crawford's to Bethlehem is rather fatiguing; but I 
said, as in duty bound, " Xo " ( I said it because the thought of riding 
through Bethlehem Street on the top of a peddler's cart appeared ridicu- 
lous in ni}- eyes — with shame I confess it), " thank you ; your horse al- 
ready has all he can pull, and I have only a mile or two farther to 

go-" 

The peddler then fell into stejD with me, taking a long, even stride 
that brouGrht back old recollections. I said. 



BETHLEHEM. 289 

" You have been a soldier." 

" How know you dat ?" 

"By your gait — you do not walk, you march: by that sabre-cut on 
your right hand." 

" Ha ! you goot eyes haf ; but it a payonet vas." 

Believing I saw a veteran of our great civil war, I asked, with un- 
disguised interest, 

" Where did you serve ? Where were you wounded .''" 

" \'on year und half in war mit Danemark, von year und half mit 
Oustria, und two mit Vrance." 

I looked at him again. What ! That undersized, insignificant ap- 
pearing little chap, whom I could easily have pitched into the ditch, 
he a soldier of Sadowa, of Metz, of Paris. Bah ! 

" So, the wars over, you emigrated to America ?" 

" Right avay. Ven I get home from Baris I tell Linda, my vife, 
' Look here, Linda : I been soldier six year. Now I plenty fighting 
got. Dere's two hunder thaler in the knapsack. Shut your mouth 
tight, open your eye close, and we get out of dis double -quig.' She 
say ' Where I go .''' und I tell her the f/-nited States, by hell, befor anoder 
var come. She begin to cry, I begin to schwear, und we settle it right 
avay." 

I asked if he minded telling how he came by the wound in his 
hand. This is what he told me in his broken English : 

Wlien Marshal Bazaine made his last desperate effort to shake off 
the deadly gripe the Prussians had fastened upon Metz, a battalion of 
tiraillcui^s suddenly surrounded an advanced post established by the 
Germans in the suburbs. The morning was foggy, and the surprise com- 
plete. The picket had hardly the time to run to their arms before they 
were driven back pell-mell on the reserve, amid a shower of balls. The 
reserve took refuge in a stone building surrounded by a thick hedge, 
maintaining an irregular fire from the windows. One of the last to 
cross the court-yard, with the French at his heels, was our German. Be- 
fore he could gain the friendly shelter of the house he stumbled and fell 
headlong, his gun flying through the air as he came to the ground, so 
that he was not only prostrate but disarmed. 

Half- stunned, he scrambled to his knees just as his nearest pursuer 
made a sa\age lunge with his sabre-bayonet. The Prussian instinctively 
grasped it. While trying thus to parry the deadly thrust, the keen 

39 



290 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

weapon pierced his hand, and he was a second time borne to the earth, 
or, rather, 23inned to it by his adversary's bayonet. 

'' Rcndcz-vons Allcmand, coclion !" screamed the Frenchman, bestrid- 
ing the Httle Prussian with a look of mortal hatred. 

" yc nc fans combrcnds" replied the wounded man, drawing a re- 
volver with his free hand and shooting his enemy dead. " I couldn't 
helb it, I vas so mad," finished the ex-soldier, running to serve two of 
his customers, who stood waiting for him at a gate by the roadside. I 
left him exhibiting ribbons, edgings, confectionery — heaven knows what ! 
— with all the volubility of an experienced shopman. 



JEFFERSON, AND VALLEY OF LSRAEL'S RLVER. 291 



IX. 

JEFFERSON, AND THE VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER. 

Through the valley runs a river, bright and rocky, cool and swift, 
Where the wave with many a quiver plays around the pine-tree's drift. 

Good Worth. 

IT remains to introduce the reader into tlie valley watered by Israel's 
River, and for this purpose we take the rail from Bethlehem to 
Whitefield, and from Whitefield to Jefferson. 

Like Bethlehem, Jefferson lies reposing in mid-ascent of a mountain. 
Here the resemblance ends. The mountain above it is higher, the val- 
ley beneath more open, permitting an unimpeded view up and down. 
The hill-side upon which the clump of hotels is situated makes no steep 
plunge into the valley, but inclines gently down to the banks of the 
river. Instead of crowding upon and jostling each other, the mountains 
forming opposite sides of this valley remain tranquilly in the alignment 
they were commanded not to overstep. The confusion there is reduced 
to admirable order here ; the smooth slopes, the clean lines, the ample 
views, the roominess, so to speak, of the landscape, indicate that every- 
thing has been done without haste, with precision, and without deviation 
from the original plan, which contemplated a paradise upon earth. 

Issuing from the wasted sides of Mount Jefferson and Mount Adams, 
Israel's River runs a short north-westerly course of fifteen miles into the 
Connecticut at Lancaster. This beautiful stream received its name from 
Israel Glines, a hunter, who frequented these regions long before the 
settlement of the country. The road from Lancaster to Gorham follows 
the northern highlands of its valley to its head, then crossing the divid- 
ing ridge which separates its waters from those of Moose River, de- 
scends this stream to the .Vndroscoggin at Gorham. 

On the north side Starr King Mountain rises 2400 feet above the 
valley and 3800 feet above the sea. On the south side Cherry Moun- 



293 



THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



tain lifts itself 3670 feet higher than the tide- level. These two moun- 
tains form the broad basin through which Israel's River flows for more 
than half its course. The village of Jefferson Hill lies on the southern 
slope of Starr King, and, of course, on the north side of the valley. 
Cherry Mountain, the most prominent object in the foreground, is itself 
a fine mountain study. It looks down through the great Notch, greet- 
ing Chocorua. It is conspicuous from any elevated point north of the 
Franconia group — from Fabyan's, Bethlehem, Whitefield, Lancaster, etc. 




THE NORTHERN PEAKS FROM JEEKERSON. 



Owl's Head is a conspicuous protuberance of this mountain. Over the 
right shoulder of Cherry Mountain stand the great Franconia Peaks, and 
to the right of these, its buildings visible, is Bethlehem. Now look up 
the valley. 

We see that we have taken one step nearer the northern wing of the 
great central edifice whose snowy dome dominates New England. We 
are advancing as if to turn this magnificent battle -line of Titans,- on 
whose right Madison stands in an attitude to repel assault. Adams 



JEFFERSON, AND VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER. 293 

next erects his sharp lance, Jefferson his shinint; crescent, Washington 
his broad buckler, and Monroe his twin crags against the sky. Jeffer- 
son, as the nearest, stands boldly forward, showing its tremendous ra- 
vines, and long, supporting ridges, with great distinctness. Washington 
loses something of its grandeur here ; at least it is not the most striking 
object ; that must be sought for among the sable-sided giants standing at 
his right hand. The southern peaks, being foreshortened, show only an 
irregular and flattened outline which we do not look at a second time. 
From Madison to Lafayette, our two rallying points, the distance can 
hardly be less than forty miles as the eye travels: the entire circuit it 
is able to trace cannot fall short of seventy or eighty miles. ^ As at 
Bethlehem, the view out of the valley is chiefly remarkable for its con- 
trast with every other feature. 

I took a peculiar satisfaction in these views, they were so ample, so 
extensive, so impressive. Here you really feel as if the whole noble 
company of mountains were marshalled solely for your delighted inspec- 
tion. At no other point is there such unmeasured gratification in see- 
ing, because the eye roves without hinderance over the grandest sum- 
mfts, placed like the Capitol at the head of its magnificent avenue. It 
alights first on one pinnacle, then flits to another. It interrogates these 
immortal structures with a calm scrutiny. It dives into the cool ravines ; 
it seeks to penetrate, like the birds, the profound silence of the forests. 
It toils slowly up the broken crags, or loiters by the cascades, hanging 
like athletes from dizzy brinks. It shrinks, it admires, it questions ; it 
is grave, gay, or thoughtful by turns. I do not believe the man lives 
who, looking up to those mountains as in the face of the Deity, can de- 
liberately utter a falsehood : the lie would choke him. 

Furthermore, you get the best idea of height here, because the long 
amphitheatre of mountains is seen steadily growing in stature toward the 
great central group ; and comparison is, by all odds, the best of teachers 
for the eye. 

If for no other reason than the respect due to age, Jefferson deserves 
a moment to itself. It was granted, October 3d, 1765, to John Goffe, 
under the name of Dartmouth. The road diverging here, and crossing 
Cherry Mountain to Fabyan's, is the oldest, as it long was the only high- 
way through the White Mountains. In those early times the travelled 
way was by the Connecticut River and Lancaster through this valley to 
the White Mountain Notch. The divergent road is the old turnpike 



^94 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUXTAIXS. 



between \'eiTnont and Portland. Gradually, as settlements were pushed 
farther and farther up the Ammonoosuc, a way was made by Bath, Lis- 
bon, Littleton, and Dalton. to Lancaster ; but to pass beyond it was still 
necessar}' to follow the old route ; nor was it until after the settlement of 
Bethlehem cleared the way that an execrable horse-path was made over 
the present great highway up the Ammonoosuc. In 1S03 President 
Dwight passed over this new road on his second excursion to the great 
Notch. Few travellers would now be willing to undergo what he did to 
see the mountains. There were then only three or four houses in the 
sixteen miles between Bethlehem and the Notch. 

One of the first settlers of Jefferson was Colonel Joseph Whipple, 
mentioned in the narrative of Nancy, the ill-starred mountain-maid, who 
died while following her faithless lover in his flight from Jefferson out 
of the mountains. Colonel Whipple lived on the road to Cherry Moun- 
tain, near the mill. In 1797 his was the only house on the road. Dur. 
ing the Revolution a party of Indians, led by a white man, surrounded 
the house, and made Whipple their prisoner. Inventing some pretext, 
the colonel obtained leave to go into another room, from which he made 
his escape by a window and fled to the woods, where he successfully 
eluded pursuit. 

Finding myself already well advanced toward the summit of Starr 
King. I finished the ascent of this mountain during an afternoon's stroll. 
Nothing worthy of remark, except the exquisite view from the summit, 
presented itself. Here I met again a throng of old acquaintances, and 
encountered a crowd of new ones. Here I saw something like a shadow- 
darken the side of Mount Washington, and watched it creep steadily up 
and up to the summit. The shadow was the smoke of the locomotive 
making its last ascent for the day, under the eyes of thousands of spec- 
tators, who look at it to turn away \\-ith a smile, a shrug, or a shake of 
the head. 

The name of Starr King has become a household word with all trav- 
ellers in the White Mountains. It was most fitting that he who inter- 
preted Nature so well and so truly should receive his monument at her 
hands. To him the mountains were emblematic of her highest perfec- 
tion. He loved them. His tone when speaking of them is always ten- 
der and caressing. They appealed to his rare and exquisite perception 
of the beautiful, to his fine and sensitive nature, capable of detecting 
intuitivelv what was hid from common eves. He felt their presence to 



JEFFERSON, AND VALLEY OF LSRAEL'S RIVER. 295 

be ennobling and uplifting. He opened for us the charmed portal. We 
accompanied him through an earthly paradise then first revealed to us 
by the fervor and wealth of his description. He led us to the shadiest 
retreats, the coolest groves, the most secluded glens. He guided our 
footsteps up the steep mountain -side to the bleak summit. Thrice 
fitting was it that a mountain should perpetuate the name of Thomas 
Starr King. As was said at the grave of Gautier, he too dated " from 
the creation of the beautiful." 



I have now rested four days at Ethan Crawford's, who lives on the 
side of Boy Mountain, five miles east of Jefferson Hill, on the road to 
Gorham. This Ethan is a son of the celebrated guide and host so well 
known to former travellers by the sobriquet of Keeper of the Mountains. 

I go to the window, and facing toward the setting sun look down 
the broadening valley of Israel's River, over the glistening house-tops 
of Whitefield, into and beyond the Connecticut Valley. I have Mitten 
Mountain and Cherry Mountain, both heavily wooded, just over the way, 
although the view of these elevations is in part intercepted by a nearer 
mountain, also covered with a vigorous forest. At this moment I hear 
the rush of the stream far down in the Hollow ; and, following the ser- 
pentine line its dark course makes among the press of hills, am con- 
fronted by the massive slopes of Madison and Adams, the sombre ravine 
and castled crags of Jefferson, and the hoary crest of Washington. I 
am really in the heart of the mountains. 

Swiftly from these mountains descend, with exquisite grace, enor- 
mous billows of deep sea-green, which do not subside but lift themselves 
proudly at the foot of those great overhanging walls of olive and mala- 
chite. Here rolling together, their foliage, bright or dark, repeats the 
effect of flaws sweej^ing over a sunny sea. Their deep hollows, arching 
sides, and limpid crests perfect the resemblance to the moment when, 
having exerted its utmost energy, the panting ocean stands exhausted 
and motionless in the grasp of the north wind. 

These lower mountains, interposing a barrier between the two valleys 
of the Ammonoosuc and of Israel's River, seem, you think, pushed up 
from the yielding earth simply by the enormous weight of the higher 
and neighboring mountains whose keen summit-lines cut New England 



296 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

in halves. At this hour these lines are edged with dull gold. All along 
the wavering heights I can detect with the naked eye isolated black 
crags, and can plainh' see the deep dents in the broken cornices and 
capitals of the grand old mountains — those vestiges of their primordial 
architecture. Here the inclined ridge of the plateau, connecting the 
pinnacle of Washington with the peaks of Monroe, is traced along its 
whole extent. At this distance its craggy outline breaks in light ripples, 
announcing nothing of that wilderness of stones assailing the climber. 
All the asperities are softened into capricious harmonies. Below yawn 
the ravines. 

The tracks of old slides and torrents in the side of Monroe remind 
you of the branches of a gigantic fossil tree, exposed by a fracture divid- 
ing the mountain in two. Such is, in fact, the impression received by 
looking at this mountain ; but the object which most excites my atten- 
tion is the broad and deep rent in the side of Jefferson, over which hang 
on one side the crumbling counterfeits of towers and battlements, while 
on the other cataracts, like necklaces, are suspended over its unfathomed 
abysses. Cloud-shadows drift noiselessly along the warm steeps. Cata- 
racts glisten brightly in the sun. The grave peaks look down unmoved 
on the play of the one and the sport of the otlier. 

The picture of life in East Jefferson would not be complete without 
the old hound dozing in the sun, the turkey-cocks strutting consequen- 
tially up and down, the barn-swallows darting swiftly in and out, the ring 
of young Ethan's anvil, and the bleating of sheep far up the mountain- 
side. I see them nibbling the fresh herbage, and watch the gambols 
of the lambs like a child — only the child laughs aloud, and I do not 
laugh. Voices come down the hill-side, and I see the slow mo\'ement 
of a hammock and the flutter of a dress in the maple-grove. Poetry and 
perfume mingle with the scent of wild - flowers and songs of golden- 
mouthed birds. 

Evening does not drive us within doors, the nights are so enchant- 
ing. Day fades imperceptibly out. Even the stars seem disconcerted. 
One by one they peep, and then flit from view. We watch the slow 
mustering of the celestial host in silence. A meteor leaps from heaven 
to earth. The fire -flies resemble a shower of sparks, or, as darkness 
deepens, a phosphorescent sea. Dorbeetles hurtle the still air, and frogs 
sing barcarolles in the misty fens. Now the mountains put on their sable 
armor that is to render them invisible. Here the poet must assist us: 



JEFFERSON, AND VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER. 297 

" It is the hush of night ; and all between 

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear. 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen — 
Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appear 
Precipitously steep." 

Light seems reluctant to leave the summits. It does not wholly fade 
out of the west until a late hour. In a clear and starry night all the sur- 
rounding mountains can be distinguished long after the valley is steeped 
in darkness. At half-past nine I could easily tell the time by my watch ; 
and even at this hour a pale, nebulous light still lingered where the sun 
had gone down. So at near two thousand feet above the full sea one 
peers over into that deeper horizon where twilight and dawn meet and 
embrace on the dusky threshold of midnight. 

While in the neighborhood, I devoted a day to an exploration of the 
Ravine of the Cascades. This ravine is entered from a point on the 
Gorham road about three miles distant from the Mount Adams House. 
A cart-^\■ay crosses the meadow here to an abandoned mill which is on 
the stream coming from the ravine, and by which you must ascend. A 
more beautiful example of a mountain brook it has never been my lot to 
see. The ascent is, however, tedious and toilsome in the extreme over 
the smooth and slippery rocks in its bed. Four hours of this brought 
me to the region of low trees, and to the foot of the first fall, which, I 
judged, descended about thirty feet. This way to the summit is open 
only to the most vigorous climbers. Even then it is better to descend 
into the ravine from the gap between Adams and Jefferson in order to 
visit these cascades. 

The two most profitable excursions to be made here are undoubtedly 
the ascent of Mount Adams and the drive to the top of Randolph Hill. 
I have found on the first summit irrefragable evidence that, next to Wash- 
ington and Lafayette, Adams is the peak which summer tourists are most 
desirous of ascending. A good path, on which there is a camp, leads to 
the summit. Having other views in regard to this mountain, which I 
had so often admired from a distance, I made a third reconnoisance of 
its outworks and its remarkable ravine, while en rimte for Randolph Hill. 

Unquestionably fine as the views are along this road, on which you 
are at one time rolling smoothly over meadow or upland, with the great 
northern peak rising to its full height, or again toiling up a stony 
hill-side to obtain a much better idea of its real character and prodig- 

40 



298 THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

ions dimensions, the climax is reserved until, turning from the high- 
way, you begin a slow advance up the long hill-side that makes an al- 
most uninterrupted descent for five miles to the Androscoggin. Here 
I saw from a balcony what I had before seen from the ground -floor. 
The view is large and expansive. You look down the surging land 
into the Androscoggin. You look over among the mountains circling 
its head, huddled together like a frightened herd. You look down into 
the valley of the Moose, and through the gap in the great chain you 
again see the valley of the Peabody and the Carter Notch. Now you 
hold the great northern peaks admiringly at arm's-length, as you would 
an old friend. Putting an imaginary hand on each broad shoulder, you 
scan them from head to foot. They submit calmly and with condescen- 
sion to your lengthened scrutiny. Presently the low sun floods them 
.with royal purple and gilds the topmost crags with refined gold. You 
glance up the valley. The little river comes like a stream of fire which 
the huge mountains seem crowding forward to trample out. Now look 
down. The same mountains seem spurning the glittering serpent away 
from their feet. 

Kings Ravine is as well seen from this point, perhaps, as any. It is 
a huge natural niche excavated high up the mountain. You see every- 
thing — grizzled spruces, blackened shafts of stone, rifted walls, tawny 
crags — all in one glance. It is formidable and forbidding, though a way 
has been made through it by which to ascend Mount Adams. Now 
that there is a good path skirting the ravine and avoiding it, that look 
will usually sufifice to deter sensible people from attempting to reach the 
summit by it. It is far better to descend into it and grope one's way 
down through and underneath the bowlders. The same, and even 
greater, obstacles are encountered as in Tuckerman's. In early spring 
the walls of the ravine are streaked with slowly-melting snows. These 
gulches, all converging toward the bottom, send a torrent roaring down 
with noise equal to surf on a hard sea-beach. This torrent is the prin- 
cipal source of the Moose. 

Well do I remember my first \'enture here. I had walked from 
Gorham. Seeing a man chopping wood by the side of the road, I 
entered into conversation with him ; but at the first suggestion I let 
fall of an intention to climb to the ravine he gaped open-mouthed. To 
ascend the brook to the ravine, the escarpment of the ravine to the high 
precipices, the precipices to the gate-way, was an exploit in those days. 



JEFFERSON, AND VALLEY OF 1 S R A E F S R/IER. 299 

But this was long ago. A good climber now puts King's Ravine down 
in his list of excursions with the same nonchalance that a belle of the 
ball-room enters an additional waltz on her card of engagements.' 

One day I had fished along the Moose without success. Nothing 
could o-ive a better idea of a mountain stream than this one, fed by 
snows and gushing from the breached side of Mount Adams. But 
either the water was too cold or the trout too wary. They persistently 
refused my fly. I tried red and brown hackle, then a white moth-miller; 
all to no purpose. Feeling downright hungry, I determined to seek a 
dinner elsewhere. Unjointing my rod, I returned, rather crestfallen, down 
the mountain into the road. 

I knocked at the first house. Pretty soon the curtain of the first 
window at my left hand was partly drawn aside. I felt that 1 was under 
the fire of a pair of very black eyes. An instant after the door was half-' 
opened by a woman past middle life, who examined me with a scared 
look while wiping her hands on a corner of her apron. Two or three 
white heads peeped out from the folds of her dress like young chickens 
from the old hen's wing, and as many pairs of widely -opened eyes sur- 
veyed me with innocent surprise. 

Perceiving her confusion, I was on the point of asking some indiffer- 
ent question, about the distance, the road— I knew not what— but my 
stomach gave me a twinge of disdain, and I stood my ground. Hunger 
has no conscience: honor was at stake. In two words I made known 
my wants, I confess with confidence oozing away at my fingers' ends. 

Her confusion became still greater — so evident, indeed, that I took a 
backward step and stammered, quite humbly, " A hunch of bread-and- 
cheese or a cup of milk — " when the good -wife nailed me to the 

threshold. 

Quoth she, " The men folks have all ti their dinners, and there hain't 
no more meat; but if you could put up with a few trout .^" 

Put up with trout! Did I hear aright.? The word made my 
mouth water. I softly repeated it to myself— " Trout !"— would I put 
up with trout.? Not to lower myself in this woman's estimation, I 
replied that, seeing there was nothing else in the house, I would put 



' The greater part of the ascent so nearly coincides, in its main features, with that into 
Tuckerman's, that a description would be. in effect, a repetition. To my mind Tuckermans 
is the grander of the two ; it is only when the upper section of King's is reached that it begins 
to be either grand or interesting by comparison. 



300 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUXTAINS. 

up with trout. Let it suffice that I made a repast fit for a prince, and, 
like a prince, being served by a bashful maiden with cheeks like the 
arbutus, which everybody knows shows its most delicate pink only in 
the seclusion of its native woods. 

ISIy hours of leisure in Jefferson being numbered, having now made 
the circuit of the great range by all the avenues penetrating or environ- 
ing it, the readers further indulgence is craved while his faithful guide 
points his well-worn alpenstock to the last stage of our mountain 
journeys. 

Behold us at last, after many capricious wanderings, after calculated 
avoidance, approaching the inevitable end. We are en route for Fa- 
byan's by the road over Cherry Mountain. This road is twelve miles 
long. As we mount with it the side of Cherry Mountain the beautiful 
vistas continually detain us. We are now climbing the eastern wall of 
the valley, so long the prominent figure from the heights of Jefferson. 
We now look back upon the finely- traced slopes of Starr King, with 
the village luxuriously extended in the sun. For some time we are like 
two travellers going in opposite directions, but who turn again and again 
for a last adieu. Now the forest closes over us and we see each other 
no more. 

Noonday found me descending that side of the mountain overlook- 
ing the Ammonoosuc \'alley. Where the Cherry Mountain road joins 
the valley highway the White Mountain House, an old-time tavern, 
stands. The railway passes close to its door. A mile more over the 
level brings us to Fabyan's, so called from one of the old mountain 
landlords, whose immortality is thus assured. Now that mammoth cara- 
vansary, which seems all eyes, is reached just as the doors opening 
upon the great hall disclose a long array of tables, while permitting a 
delicious odor to assail our nostrils. 

To speak to the purpose, the Fabyan House really commands a 
superb front view of Mount Washington, from which it is not six miles 
in a bee-line. All the southern peaks, among which Mount Pleasant 
is undoubtedly the most conspicuous for its form and its mass, and for 
being thrown so boldly out from the rest, are before the admiring spec- 
tator; but the northern peaks, with the exception of Clay and Jefferson, 
are cut off partly by the slopes of Mount Deception, which rises directly 
before the hotel, partly by the trend of the great range itself to the 
north-east. The view is superior from the neighborhood of the Mount 



JEFFERSON, AND VALLEY OF ISRAEL'S RIVER. 301 

Pleasant House, half a mile beyond Fabyan's, where Mount Jefferson 
is fully and finely brought into the picture. 

The railway is seen mounting a foot-hill, crossing a second and 
higher elevation, then dimly carved upon the massive flanks of Mount 
Washington itself, as far as the long ridge which ascends from the north 
in one unbroken slope. It is then lost. We see the houses upon the 




MOUNT WASHlNilluN, FROM FABVA.N : 



summit, and from the Mount Pleasant House the little cluster of roofs 
at the base. A long and well-defined gully, exactly dividing the moun- 
tain, is frequently taken to be the railway, which is really much farther 
to the left. The smoke of a train ascending or descending still further 
indicates the line of iron, which we admit to the category of established 
facts only under protest. 

Sylvester Marsh, of Littleton, New Hampshire, was the man who 
dreamed of setting aside the laws of gravitation with a puff of steam. 
Like all really great inventions, his had to run the gauntlet of ridi- 
cule. When the charter for a railway to the summit of Mount Wash- 



302 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

ington was before the Legislature a member moved that Mr. Marsh also 
have leave to build one to the moon. Had the motion prevailed, I am 
persuaded Mr. Marsh would have built it. Really, the project seemed 
only a little more audacious. But in three years from the time work 
was begun (April, iS66) the track was laid and the mountain in irons.' 
The summit which the superstitious Indian dared not approach, nor the 
most intrepid white hunter ascend, is now annually visited by thousands, 
without more fatigue than would follow any other excursion occupying 
the same time. The excitement of a first passage, the strain upon the 
nerves, is quite another thing. 

In a little grass-grown enclosure, on the other side of the Ammon- 
oosuc, is a headstone bearing the following inscription : 

IN MEMORY OF 

CAP ELIEZER ROSBROOK 

WHO DIED SEP. 25 

1817 

In the 70 Year 

Of His Age. 

When I lie buried deep in dust. 

My flesh shall be thy care 
These withering limbs to thee I trust 

To raise them strong and fair. 

WIDOW 

HANNAH ROSEBROOK 

Died May 4, 1S29 

Aged 84 

Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord For they rest from their labors 
And their works do follow them. 

So far as is known Rosebrook was the first white settler on this spot. 
One account'' says he came here in 17SS, another fi.xes his settlement in 
1792.^ His military title appears to have been derived from services ren- 

' The road up the Rigi, in Switzerland, was modelled upon the plans of Mr. Marsh. 

' Dr. Timothy Dwight. ' Rev. Benjamin G. Willey. 



JEFFERSON, AXD VALLEY OF ISRAELS RIVER. 303 

dered on the Canadian frontier during the Re\'okitionary War. Rose- 
brook was a true pioneer, restless, adventurous, and fearless. He was a 
man of large and athletic frame. From his home in Massachusetts he 
had first removed to what is now Colebrook, then to Guildhall, Vt., and 
lastly here, to Nash and Sawyer's Location, exchanging the comforts 
which years of toil had surrounded him with, abandoning the rich and 
fertile meadow-lands of the Connecticut, for a log-cabin far from any hu- 
man habitation, and with no other neighbors than the bears and wolves 
that prowled unharmed the shaggy wilderness at his door. With his axe 
this sturdy yeoman attacked the forest closely investing his lonely cabin. 
Year by year, foot by foot, he wrested from it a little land for tillage. 
With his gun he kept the beast of prey from his little enclosure, or pro- 
vided venison or bear's meat for the wife and little ones who anxiously 
awaited his return from the hunt. Hunger and they were no strangers. 
For years the strokes of Rosebrook's axe, or the crack of his rifle, were 
the only sounds that disturbed the silences of ages. Little by little the 
circle was enlarged. One after another the giants of the forest fell be- 
neath his blows. But years of resolute conflict with nature and with 
privation found him at last in the enjoyment of a dearly-earned prosper- 
ity. Travellers began to pass his doors. The Great White Mountain 
Notch soon became a thoroughfare, which could never have been safely 
travelled but for Rosebrook's intrepidity and Rosebrook's hospitality. 
In this way began the feeble tide of travel through these wilds. In this 
way the splendidly equipped hotel, with its thousands of guests the loco- 
motive every hour brings to its door, traces its descent from the rude 
and humble cabin of Eleazer Rosebrook. 



304 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



X. 

THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS. 

Cradled and rocked by wind and cloud, 
Safe pillowed on the summit proud, 
Steadied by that encircling arm 
Which holds the Universe from harm, 
I knew the Lord my soul would keep, 
Upon His mountain-tops asleep! 

Lucy LARco.\r. 

THUS I found myself again at the base of Moimt Washington, but 
on the reverse, opposed to the Glen. Before the completion of the 
railway from Fabyan's to the foot of the mountain I had passed over 
the intervening six miles by stage — a delightful experience ; but one now 
steps on board an open car, which in less than half the time formerly oc- 
cupied leaves him at the point where the mountain car and engine wait 
for him. The route lies along the foaming Ammonoosuc, and its justly 
admired falls, cut deep through solid granite, into the uncouth and bris- 
tling wilderness which surrounds the base of the mountain. The pecu- 
liarity of these falls does not consist in long, abrupt descents of per- 
turbed water, but in the neatly excavated caves, rock - niches, and 
smoothly rounded cliffs and basins through which for some distance 
the impatient stream rears and plunges like a courser feeling the curb. 
Imperfect glimpses hardly give an idea of the curious and interesting 
processes of rock-cutting to one who merely looks down from the high 
banks above while the train is in rapid motion. It is better, therefore, 
to visit these falls by way of the old turnpike. 

The advance up the valley which has first given us an outlook 
through the great Notch, on our right, presents for some time the huge 
green hemisphere of Mount Pleasant as the conspicuous object. The 
track then swerves to the left, bringing Mount Washington into view, 
and in a few minutes more we are at the ill-favored clump of houses and 
sheds at its base. 



THE GREAT N O R THE R N PEAK S. 



305 



The mechanism of the road-way is very simple. The track is formed 
of three iron rails, firmly clamped to stout timbers, laid lengthwise upon 
transverse pieces, or sleepers. These are securely embedded, where the 
surface will allow, or raised upon trestles, where its inequalities would 
compel a serious deflection from a smooth or regular inclination. One 
of these, about half-way up the mountain, is called Jacob's Ladder. 
Here the train achieves the most difficult part of the ascent. After 





L^W ^f^^i^^^i^ Z= 



MOUNTAIN RAILWAY-STATION IN STAGING TIMES. 



traversing the whole line on foot, and inspecting it minutely and thor- 
oughly, I can candidly pronounce it not only a marvel of mechanical 
skill, but bear witness to the scrupulous care taken to keep every timber 
and every bolt in its place. In two words, the structure is nothing but 
a ladder of wood and iron laid upon the side of the mountain.^ 



' The greatest angle of inclination is twelve feet in one hundred. 
41 



306 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

The propelling force employed is equally simple. The engine and car 
merely rest upon and are kept in place by the two outer rails, while the 
power is applied to the middle one, which we have just called a rail, but 
is, more properly speaking, a little ladder of steel cogs, into which the 
corresponding teeth of the locomotives driving-wheel play — a firm hold 
being thus secured. The question now merely is, how much power is 
necessary to overcome gravity and lift the weight of the machine into 
the air.f" This cogged-rail is the fulcrum, and steam the lever. Mr. Syl- 
vester Marsh has not precisely lifted the mountain, but he has, never- 
theless, with the aid of Mr. Walter Aiken, reduced it, to all intents, to 
a level. 

The boiler of the locomotive, inclined forward so as to preserve a 
horizontal position when the engine is ascending, the smoke-stack also 
pitched forward, give the idea of a machine that has been in a collision. 
Everything seems knocked out of place. But this queer- looking thing, 
that with bull-dog tenacity literally hangs on to the mountain with its 
teeth, is capable of performing a feat such as Watt never dreamed of, 
or Stephenson imagined. It goes up the mountain as easily as a bear 
climbs a tree, and like a bear. 

I had often watched the last ascension of the train, which usually 
reaches the summit at sunset, and I had as often pleased myself with 
considering whether it then most resembled a big, shining beetle crawl- 
ing up the mountain side, or some fiery dragon of the fabulous times, 
dragging his pre}' after him to his den, after ravaging the valley. My 
own turn was now come to make the trial. It was a cold afternoon in 
September when I entered the little carriage, not much larger than a 
street-car, and felt the premonitory jerk with which the ascent begins. 
The first hill is so steep that )ou look up to see the track always 
mounting high above your head ; but one soon gets used to the novelty, 
and to the clatter which accompanies the incessant dropping of a pawl 
into the indentures of the cogged -rail, and in which he recognizes an 
element of safety. The train did not move faster than one could walk, 
but it moved steadily, except when it now and then stopped at a water- 
tank, standing solitary and alone upon the waste of rocks. 

By the time we emerged above the forest into the chill and wind- 
swept desolation above it — a first sight of which is so amazing — the sun 
had set behind the Green Mountain summits, showing a long, serrated 
line of crimson peaks, above which clouds of lake floated in a sea of am- 



THE GREAT X O R T H E R X PEAKS. 307 

ber. It grew very cold. Great -coats and shawls were quickly put on. 
Thick darkness enveloped the mountain as we approached the head of 
the profound gulf separating us from Mount Clay, which is the most 
remarkable object seen at any time either during the ascent or descent. 
Into this pitchy ravine, into its midnight blackness, a long and brilliant 
train of sparks trailed downward from the locomotive, so that we seemed 
being transported heavenward in a chariot of fire. This flaming torch, 
lighting us on, now disclosed snow and ice on all sides. We had suc- 
cessfully attained the last slope which conceals the railway from the 
valley. Up this the locomotive toiled and panted, while we watched 
the stars come out and emit cold gleams around, above, beneath. The 
light of the Summit House twinkled small, then grew large, as, sur- 
mounting the last and steepest pitch of the pinnacle, we were pushed 
before a long row of lighted windows crusted thick with hoar-frost. 
Stiffened with cold, the passengers rushed for the open door without 
ceremony. In an instant the car was empty; while the locomotive, 
dripping with its unheard-of efforts, seemed to regard tliis desertion 
with reproachful glances. 

Reader, have you ever sat beside Mrs. Dodge's lire after such a 
passive ascension as that just described? After a two hours' combat 
with the instinct of self-preservation, did you dream of such comforts, 
luxuries even, awaiting you on the bleak mountain -top, where nothing 
grows, and where water even congeals and refuses to run .^ Could you, 
in the highest flights of fancy, imagine that you would one day sit in 
the courts of heaven, or feast sumptuously amid the stars.!" AH this 
you either have done or may do. And now, while the smartly -dressed 
waiter-girl, who seems to have donned her white apron as a personal 
favor, brings you the best the larder affords, pinch yourself to see if you 
are awake. 

In several ascensions by the railway I have always remarked the 
same symptoms of uneasiness among the passengers, betrayed by pale 
faces, compressed lips, hands tightening their grasp of the chairs, or sub- 
dued and startled exclamations, quickly repressed. To escape the in- 
fluence of such weird surroundings one should be absolutely stolid— a 
stock or a stone. So for all it is an experience more or less acute, ac- 
cording to his sensibility, strength of nerve, and power of self-control. 
However well it may be disguised, the strong equally with the weak, and 
more deeply than the weak, feel the strain which ninety minutes' com- 



3oS THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

bat with gravitation, attraction, ponderosity, engenders. The mind does 
not for a single instant quit its hold of this defiance of Nature's laws. 
As long as iron and steel hold fast, there is no danger; but you think 
iron and steel are iron and steel, and no more. An anecdote will illus- 
trate this feeling. 

After pointing out to a lady -passenger the skilful devices for stop- 
ping the engine — the pawl, the steam, and the atmospheric brakes — and 
after patiently explaining their mechanism and uses, the listener asked 
the conductor, with much interest, 

" Then, if the pawl breaks while we are going up .?" 

" The engine will be stopped by means of these powerful brakes, ap- 
plied directly to the axles, which will, of course, render the train motion- 
less. As the locomotive has two driving-wheels, the engineer can bring 
a double power to bear, as you see. Each is independent of the other, 
so that if one gives way the other is still more than sufficient to keep 
the engine stationary." 

" Thank you ; but the car .''"" 

" Oh, the car is not attached to the engine at all ; and should the 
engineer lose the control of his machine, which is not at all likely, the 
car can be brought to a stand -still by independent brakes of its own. 
You see the engine goes up behind, and in front, down ; and the car is 
simply pushed forward, or follows it." 

" So that you consider it — " 

" Perfectly safe, madam, perfectly safe." 

" Thank you. One question more. Suppose all these things break 
at once. What then 1 Where would we go }" 

" That, madam, would depend on what sort of a life you had led." 

I have still a consolation for the timid. Ten years' trial has con- 
firmed the declaration of its projectors, that they would make the road 
as safe or safer than the ordinary railway. No life has been lost by an 
injury to a passenger during that time. Besides, what is the difference.'' 
After its day, the railway will pass like the stage-coach — that is, unless 
you believe, as you do not, that the world and all progress are to stop 
with ourselves. 

The affable lady hostess told me that she paid an annual rental of 
ten thousand dollars for her palace of ice ; nominally for a year, but 
really for a term of only seventy -six days, this being the limit of the 
season upon the summit. Durine the remainine two hundred and 



THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS. 



309 




A-jC LM li^ nil K\n \\ ^\ 



eio-hty-nme days rhe house is cluscJ. 

During four or five months it is buried, 

or half -buried, in a snow-drift. Of this large sum, 

three thousand dollars go to the Pingree heirs. These 

facts may tend to modify the views of those who think the 

charges exorbitant, if such there are. 



3IO THE HEART OE THE JIH/TE MO CXTAJXS. 

Raising my eyes to look out of the window, the hght from within 
fell uj3on a bank of snow. A man was stooping over it as if in search 
of something. Going out, I found him feeling it with his hands, and 
examining it with childish wonder and curiosity. I approached this 
eccentric person very softly ; but he, seeing my shadow on the snow be- 
side him, looked up. 

" Can I assist you in recovering what you have lost ?" I incjuired. 

"Thank you; no. I have lost nothing. Ah! I see," he continued, 
laughing quietly, "you think I have lost my wits. But it is not so. I 
am a native of the East Indies, and I assure you this is the first time 
in my life I have ever seen snow near enough to handle it. Imagine 
what an experience the ascent of Mount Washington is for me !" 

We took a turn down the hard -frozen Glen road together in order 
to see the moon come up. The telegraph-poles, fantastically crusted with 
ice to the thickness of a foot, stretched a line of white-hooded phantoms 
down the dark side of the mountain. From successive coatings of 
frozen mist the wires were as thick as cables. Couches of snow lay 
along the rocks, and fresh snow had apparently been rubbed into all 
the inequalties of the cliffs rising out of the Great Gulf. The scene was 
supremely weird, supremely desolate. 

From here we crossed over to the railway, and, ascending by it, 
shortly came upon the heap of stones, surmounted by its tablet, erected 
on the spot where Miss Bourne perished while ascending the mountain, 
in September, 1855. The party, of which she was one, setting out in 
high spirits in the afternoon from the Glen House, was overtaken near 
the summit by clouds, which hid the house from view, and among which 
they became bewildered. It was here Miss Bourne declared she could 
go no fai'ther. Overcome by her exertions, she sunk exhausted and 
fainting upon the rocks. Her friends were scarcely awakened to her 
true condition when, amid the surrounding darkness and gloom, this 
young and lovely maiden of only twenty expired in the arms of her 
uncle. The mourners wrapped the body in their own cloaks, and, igno- 
rant that a few rods only separated them from the summit, kept a vigil 
throughout the long and weary night. We hasten over this night of 
dread. In the morning, discovering their destination a few rods above 
them, they bore the lifeless form of their companion to it with feelings 
not to be described. A rude bier was made, and she who had started 
up the mountain full of life now descended it a corpse. 



THE GREAT X O R T 11 E R X PEAKS. 311 

The evening treated us to a magnificent spectacle. The moon, in 
full-orbed splendor, moved majestically up the heavens, attended by her 
glittering retinue of stars. Frozen peaks, reflecting the mild radiance, 
shone like beaten silver. But the immense hollows between, the deep 
valleys that had been open to view, were now inundated with a white 
and luminous vapor, from wliich the multitude of icy summits emerged 
like a vast archipelago — a sea of islands. This spectral ocean seemed 
on the point of ingulfing the mountains. This motionless sea, these 
austere peaks, uprising, were inconceivably weird and solemnizing. An 
awful hush pervaded the inanimate but threatening host of cloud girt 
mountains. Upon them, upon the sea of frozen vapor, absorbing its 
light, the clear moon poured its radiance. The stars seemed nearer and 
brighter than ever before. The planets shone with piercing brilliancy ; 
they emitted a sensible light. The Milky Way, erecting its glittering 
nebula to the zenith, to which it was pinned by a dazzling star, floated, 
a glorious, star-spangled veil, amid this vast sea of gems. One could 
vaguely catch the idea of an unpeopled desolation rising from the 
fathomless void of a primeval ocean. The peaks, incased in snow and 
ice, seemed stamped with the traces of its subsidence. Pale and hag- 
gard, they lifted their antique heads in silent adoration. 

Going to my room and extinguishing the light, I stood for some time 
at the window, unable to reconcile the unwonted appearance of the stars 
shining far below, with the fixed idea that they ought not to be there. 
Yet there they were. To tell the truth, my head was filled with the sur- 
passing pomp I had just witnessed, of which I had not before the faint- 
est conception. I felt as if I was silently conversing with all those stars, 
looking at me and my petty aspirations with such inflexible, disdainful 
immobility. When one feels that he is nothing, .self-assurance is no 
great thing. The conceit is taken out of him. On a mountain the man 
stands naked before his Maker. He is nothing. That is why I leave 
him there. 

That night I did not sleep a wink. Twenty times I jumped out of 
bed and ran to the window to convince myself that it was not all a 
dream. No; moon and stars were still bright. Over the Great Gulf, 
all ghastly in the moonlight, stood Mount Jefferson in his winding-sheet. 
I dressed myself, and from the embrasure of my window kept a vigil. 

Sunrise did not produce the startling effect I had anticipated. The 
mornino- was fine and cloudless. A gong summoned the inmates of the 



312 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

hotel to the spectacle. Witliout dressing themselves, they ran to their 
windows, where, wrapped in bed -blankets, they stood eagerly watching 
the east. To the pale emerald of early dawn a ruddy glow succeeded. 
Before we were aware, the rocky waste around us grew dusky red. 
The crimsoned air glided swiftly over the neighboring summits. Now 
the brightness was upon Adams and Jefferson and Clay, and now it 
rolled its purpled flood into the Great Gulf, to mingle with the intense 
blackness at the bottom. For some moments the mountain-tops held 
the color, then it was transfused into the clear sunshine of open day; 
while the vapors, heavy and compact, stretched along the valleys, still 
smothering the land, retained their leaden hue. 

It was still early when I descended the carriage-road on my way to 
Mount Adams. The usual way is to keep the railway as far as the old 
Gulf Tank, near which is a house of refuge, provided with a cooking- 
stove, fuel, and beds. I continued, however, to coast the upper crags 
of the Great Gulf, until compelled to make directly for the southern 
peak of Mount Clay. The view from this col is imposing, embracing 
at once, and without turning the head, all the southern summits of the 
chain. Here I was joined by two travellers fresh from Mont Blanc and 
the Matterhorn. 

Each choosing a route for himself, we pushed on to the high summit 
of Clay, from which we looked down into the deep gap dividing this 
mountain from Jefferson. Arrived there, we resolutely attacked the east- 
ern slopes of this fine peak, whose notched summit rose more than seven 
hundred and fifty feet above our heads. Patches of Alpine grasses, of 
reindeer -moss, interspersed with irregular ridges of stones, extended 
quite up to the summit, which was a mere elongated stone-heap crowning 
the apex of its cone. Those undulating masses encircling its bulk, half 
hid among the grass, were like an immense python crushing the moun- 
tain in its deadly folds. We picked our way carefully among this 
chaotic debris, which the Swiss aptly call " cemeteries of the devil," 
tripping now and then in the long, wiry grass, or burying our feet 
among the hummocks of dry moss, which were so many impediments 
to rapid progress. This appearance and this experience were common 
to the whole route. 

At each summit we threw ourselves upon the ground, to feast upon 
the landscape while regaining breath. Each halt developed more and 
more the grand and stupendous mass of W'ashington receding from the 



THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS. 313 

depths of the Great Gulf, along whose edge the carriage-road serpentined 
and finally disappeared. We saw, a little softened by distance, the hor- 
ribly mutilated crags of the head wall stripped bare of all verdure, pre- 
senting on its knobbed agglomerates of tempest-gnawed granite a thou- 
sand eye-catching points and detaining as many shadows. Nothing — 
not even the glittering leagues of mountains and valleys shooting or 
slumbering above, beneath — so riveted the attention as this apparently 
bottomless pit of the five mountains. It was a continued wonder. It 
drew us by a strange magnetism to its dizzy brink, chained us there, and 
then abandoned us to a physical and moral vertigo, in which the power 
of critical investigation was lost. An invisible force seemed always drag- 
ging us toward it. Whence comes this horrible, this uncontrollable de- 
sire to throw ourselves in } 

Out of the death-like torpor which eternally shrouds the ravine the 
smiling valley seems escaping. The crystal air of the heights grows 
thick in its depths. Beasts and birds of prey haunt its gloomy solitudes. 
An immense grave seems yawning to receive the mountains. The aged 
mountains seem standing with one foot in the grave. 

This gulf makes an impression altogether different from the others. 
It is an immense ravine. Each of the five mountains pushes down into 
it massive buttresses of granite, forming lesser ravines between of con- 
siderable extent. Through these streams trickle down from invisible 
sources. But these buttresses, which fall lightly and gracefully as folds 
of velvet from summit to base of the highest mountains, these ravines, 
are hardly noticed. The insatiable maw of the gulf swallows them as 
easily as an anaconda a rabbit. In immensity, which you do not easily 
grasp, in grandeiu", which you do not know how to measure, this has no 
partakers here. Even the great Carter Mountain, rising from the Pea- 
body Valley, seems no more than a stone rolled away from the entrance 
of this enormous sepulchre. 

Our first difficulties were encountered upon the reverse of Mount 
Jefferson, from whose side rocky spurs detached themselves, and, jut- 
ting out from the side of the mountain, formed an irregular line of cliffs 
of varying height, in the way we had selected for the descent. But 
these were no great affair. We now had the Ravine of the Castles 
upon our left, the stately pyramid of .Adams in front, and, beneath, the 
deep hollow between this mountain and the one we were descending. 
We had the little hamlet of East Jefferson at the mouth of the ravine. 

42 



314 



THE HEART OE THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



and that crowd of peaks, tightly wedged between the waters of the Con- 
necticut and the Androscoggin, looming above it. 

A deviation to the left enabled us to approach the Castellated Ridge, 
which is, beyond dispute, the most extraordinary rock -formation the 
whole extent of the range can show. As it is then fully before you, it 
is seen to much better advantage when approached from Mount Adams. 
I do not know who gave it this name, but none could be more felicitous 
or expressive. It is a sloping ridge of red-brown granite, broken at its 
summit into a long line of picturesque towers and battlements, rising 
threateningly over an escarpment of debris. Such an illusion is too 
rarely encountered to be easily forgotten. It is hardly possible to doubt 
you are really looking at an antique ruin. One would like to wander 
among these pre-Adamite fortifications, which curiously remind him of the 
old Spanish fortresses among the Pyrenees. From the opposite side of 
the ravine — for I had not the time requisite for a closer examination — the 
rock composing the most elevated portion of the ridge appears to ha\-e 
been split perpendicularly down, probably b)- frost, allowing these broken 
columns and shafts to stand erect upon the verge of the abyss. In the 
warm afternoon light, when the shadows fall, it is hardly possible to 
conceive a finer picture of a crumbling but still formidable mountain 
fortress. Bastions and turrets stand boldly out. Each broken shaft 
sends a long shadow streaming down into the ravine, whose high and 
deeply-furrowed sides are thus beautifully striped with dusk-purple, while 
the sunlit parts retain a greenish-gray. 

At the foot of Jefferson we found, concealed among rushes, a spring, 
which refreshed us like wells of the desert the parched and fainting 
Arab. From here two routes offered themselves. One was by keeping 
the curved ridge, rising gradually to a subordinate peak (Samuel Adams),' 
and to the foot of the summit itself; a second was by crossing the 
ground sloping downward from this ridge into the Great Gulf. We 
chose the latter, notwithstanding the dwarf -spruce, advancing well up 
to the foot of the ridge, promised a warm reception. 

At last, after sustaining a vigorous tussle with the scrub -firs, and 
stopping to unearth a brook whose waters purred underneath stones, I 



' Samuel Adams at the feet of John Adams is not the exact order that we have been 
accustomed to seeing these men. Better leave Samuel .\dams where he stands in histor}-— 
alone. 



THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS. 



315 





'ti'^A 



THE C\STELL\TFn RIDOE 



\^%-\< ' 



stood at the foot of 

the pointed shaft I had so often 
seen wedged into the sky. Five hundred feet 
or more of the apex of this pyramid is apparently 
formed of broken rocks, dropped one by one into place. 
Nothing like a ledge or a cliff is to be seen : only these 
ponderous, sharp-edged masses of cold gray stone, lifted 
one above another to the tapering point. Up this mutilated pyramid 
we began a slow advance. It was necessary to carefully choose one 
step before taking another, in order to avoid plunging into the deep cre- 

42* 



31 6 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

v^asses traversing the peak in every direction. At last I placed my foot 
upon the topmost crag. 

No one can help regarding this peak with the open admiration 
which is its due. You conceive that every mountain ought to have 
a pinnacle. Well, here it is. We could easily have stood astride the 
culminating point. But how came these rocks here.-' and what was 
the primitive structure, if these fragments we see are its relics.? One 
hardly believes that an ice -raft could have first transported and then 
deposited such misshapen masses in their present symmetrical form. 
Still less does he admit that the original shaft, crushed in a thousand 
pieces by the glacier itself, fell with such grace as to ri^e again, as he 
now sees it, from its own ruins. If, again, it proceeds from the eternal 
hammering of King Frost, what was the antique edifice that first rose 
so proudly above the frozen seas of the great primeval void .? But to 
science the things which belong to science. We have a book describing 
heaven, but not one that resolves the problems of earth. The '"I'cni, 
vidi, vici" of the Book of Genesis leaves us at the beginning. We are 
still staring, still questioning, still vacillating between this theory and 
that hypothesis.' 

We had from the summit an inspiring though not an extensive view. 
A bank of dun-colored smoke smirched the fair western sky as high as 
the summits of the Green Mountains. At fifty miles mountains and 
valleys melted confusedly into each other. Water emitted only a dull 
glimmer. Here a peak and there a summit surveyed us from afar. AU 
else was intangible; almost imaginary. At twenty-five miles the land, 
resuming its ordinary appearance, was bathed in the soft brilliance 
caused by the sun shining through an atmosphere only half transparent. 

Upon this obscure mass we traced once more the well-known objects 
environing the great mountain. To the south Mount Washington di- 
vided the landscape in two. For some time we stood admiring its mag- 
nificent torso, its amplitude of rock -land, its easy preponderance over 
every other summit. Again we followed the road down the great north- 
east spur. Once more we caught the white specks which denote the 
line of the railway. W^e plunged our eyes down into the Great Gulf, 



' It is only forty years since Agassiz advanced his now generally adopted theory of the 
Glacial Period. The Indians believed that the world was originally covered with water, and 
that their god created the dry land from a grain of sand. 



THE GREAT NORTHERN PEAKS. 317 

and lifted them to the sliattered protuberances of Clay, which seemed 
to mark the route where the glacier crushed and ground its way through 
the very centre of the chain. A second time we descended Jefferson to 
the deep dip, opening like a trough between two enormous sea- waves, 
where we first saw the little Storm Lake glistening. Following now 
the long, rocky ridge, rolling downward toward the hamlets of Jeffer- 
son and Randolph, the mountains yawned wide at our feet. We were 
looking over into King's Ravine — to its very bottom. We peered curi- 
ously into its remotest depths, traced the difificult and breathless ascent 
through the remarkable natural gateway at its head out upon a second 
ridge, on which a little pond (Star Lake) lies hid. We then crossed the 
gap communicating with Mount Madison, whose summit, last and lowest 
of the great northern peaks, dominates the Androscoggin Valley with 
undisputed sway. To-day it made on us scarcely an impression. Its 
peak, which from the valley holds a rough similitude with tb.at of Adams, 
is dwarfed here. You look down upon it. 

More applicable to Adams than to any other, for our eyes grow daz- 
zled with the glitter and sparkle of countless mica-flakes incrusting the 
hard granite with clear brilliancy as from the facets of a diamond ; more 
applicable, again, from the stern, unconquerable attitude of the great 
gray shaft itself, lifted in such conscious pride beyond the confines of 
the vast ethereal wiult of blue — a tower of darkness invading the bright 
realms of light ; a defiance flung by earth in the face of high heaven— is 
the magnificent description of the Matterhorn from the pen of Ruskin : 

" If one of these little flakes of mica-sand, hurried in tremulous 
spangling along the bottom of the ancient river, too light to sink, too 
faint to float, almost too small for sight, could have had a mind given 
• to it as it was at last borne down with its kindred dust into the abysses 
of the stream, and laid (would it not have thought?) for a hopeless 
eternity in the dark coze, the most despised, forgotten, and feeble of all 
earth "s atoms ; incapable of any use or change ; not fit, down there in 
the diluvial darkness, so much as to help an earth-wasp to build its nest, 
or feed the first fibre of a lichen — what would it have thought had it 
been told that one day, knitted into a strength as of imperishable iron, 
rustless by the air, infusible by the flame, out of the substance of it, with 
its fellows, the axe of God should hew that Alpine tower ;— that against 
2V_ poor, helpless mica - flake ! — the snowy hills should lie bowed like 
flocks of sheep, and the kingdoms of the earth fade away in unregarded 



3l8 THE HEART OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

blue; and around it — weak, wave-drifted mica-flake! — the great war of 
the firmanent should burst in thunder, and yet stir it not; and the fier}- 
arnnvs and angry meteors of the night fall blunted back from it into the 
air; and all the stars in the clear heaven should light, one by one, as 
they rose, new cressets upon the points of snow that fringed its abiding- 
place on the imperishable spire !" 

Myself and my companions set out on our return to the Summit 
House early in the afternoon, choosing this time the ridge in preference 
to the scrubby slope. From this we turned away, at the end of half 
an hour, by an obscure path leading to a boggy pool, sunk in a mossy 
hollow underneath it, crossed the area of scattered bowlders, strewn all 
around like the relics of a petrified tempest, and, filling our cups at the 
spring, drank to Mount Adams, the paragon of mountain peaks. 

As. we again approached the brow of Mount Washington the sun 
resembled a red-hot globe of iron flying through the west and spreading 
a conflagration through the heavens. Again the colossal shadow of the 
mountain began its stately ascension in the east. One moment the 
burning eye of the great luminary interrogated this phantom, sprung 
from the loins of the hoary peak. Then it dropped heavily down behind 
the Green Mountains, as it has done for thousands of years, the land- 
scape fading, fading into one vast, shadowy abyss, out of which arose 
the star-lit dome of the august summit. 



THE END. 



- w ' J s5,i S . 4 ^ 



